The Hound's Reward
by MrsRasputin
Summary: If you could give the Hound a reward, what would it be? When Sansa refuses to leave with Sandor during the battle of Blackwater, he is left with only one option: stay with her. During the hours that follow he saves Joffrey's life and the King gives him a reward...what happens next? Mature themes, spoilers for TV show and books.
1. Chapter 1

(The original characters are the property of the author, GRR Martin. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended . All rights reserved.)

* * *

When he was not on duty and he could not sleep Sandor would find his way to the stables. The stable lads were used to this behaviour, knowing to make themselves scarce when they saw his bulk looming in the wooden doorway. In a way, it was a relief that the Hound liked to groom Stranger himself because the beast was as miserable and vicious as his master. The boys would melt into the dark corners of the stables and wait until he had finished. If they tried to stay to watch him he would growl and curse at them until they fled but if they did spy on him they saw there nothing different to their own grooming techniques, nothing except tenderness. The boys would laugh and say: the Hound only feels happy with other animals.

Sandor knew what they whispered about him. He knew what people thought of him. None of this mattered in the warm gloom of the stable. Sandor would lift each hoof and pick the stones from Stranger's shoes, rub his large hands down each fetlock feeling for any injuries. He would groom the horse's black hide until it shone like dragon glass and all the time he would mumble endearments, too low for anyone to overhear what he said but the horse would relax its angry stance, lower its head and nuzzle into the big man's shoulder, rub his velvet face into Sandor's palm.

The horse knew the man kept apples in his pockets for him and the man knew the horse loved him. The stable boys knew the Hound had a gentle side but they were wise enough not to breathe a word of it around Kings Landing. The Hound would not think twice about throwing them from the parapets or using their skin for a bag; at least that is what they whispered to each other. Then they shuddered and dared each other to go near him.

The Hound's temper and ferocity had a life of its own and it caused people to react when they saw him. Flinch. Shudder. Draw back in fear. Disgust would flash across faces. He was unsure if it was disgust about his ugly, scarred face or disgust about the trail of dead he left in his wake. Either way, he was one of the most infamous and feared men in the Seven Kingdoms, which was an odd predicament for a man who craved solitude and peace.

He craved silence and peace the same way he craved the feeling he got when he ran a man through with his sword and the look of surprise that flooded their eyes. It was always the same. Shock when they realised that this life was over followed by something that Sandor couldn't express. Was it resignation? Enlightenment? He was unsure. There had been times when he had grabbed a dying person and demanded an answer. What do you see? Tell me? But their life blood had gushed onto his tunic and the light would die in their eyes. Sometimes they smiled at him, whether in spite at denying him an answer or knowledge of some great secret, he did not know. Did he kill people for that look? Perhaps.

What else was there in his life, he was a man made out of hatred, forged in the steel of vengeance. That hatred was focused on his own blood: Gregor. How he despised him. And feared him. That much he admitted to himself as he stared into the bottom of a wine cup or the blank eyes of a whore he had paid to fuck him.

Sandor was a man who was aware of his own weaknesses and he despised himself, more than the courtiers who laughed at him, more than the commoners who wept and cursed when they saw him, more than the whore who stared at him with fear. He, Sandor Clegane, hated his own face, his own life and all the vile things he did but he felt utterly and bleakly trapped. This was his destiny, the only thing an ugly, rough dog could do. Kill, obey, kill, obey, kill…

* * *

The blond teenager lay on his velvet couch whilst his mother paced the room. Incense coiled around the ceiling making shapes like forgotten dragons. He watched Cersei idly and wondered what it would be like to kill her. He thought about this often. He would like her to suffer but he wouldn't like any mess. Having her executed or murdered by one of his King's Guard would be bloody and she would scream. It would all be entirely wearisome and disgusting.

Not that he didn't enjoy hearing someone scream in pain or bleed in front of him, just the thought of ordering his soldiers to kill the peasants excited him, but his mother was different. She was his flesh and she was beautiful. He still remembered the feeling of lying on her lap when he was a little boy, stroking her face whilst he sucked his thumb. She would smile and laugh, tell him stories and kiss his face. He had been happy.

When his jolly father had been alive. There had always been the hope of pleasing him. Before he found out his mother was a whore who had slept with his Uncle Jamie. Uncle Jamie who was his fa…No, suffice to say he would like her to suffer and to know that it was he that had ordered her death. He was the King. King Joffrey. Poison would be the best thing. A slow, painful, agonising poison. He smiled as he daydreamed about twitching limbs, blank eyes…his mother's voice was like a fly buzzing in the room. It was intolerable.

Joffrey sat up suddenly, knocking his tray of glazed nuts and fruits to the floor. Some dumb and terrified maid ran to clean it up, trying to avoid his gaze. Joffrey smoothed the lace on his blue velvet tunic and spoke in commanding voice. The kind he thought a kIng should use.

'Mother, I am bored of your constant moaning about the war. Just shut up.'

Cersei stopped pacing and looked uncertainly towards him. Her long fingers tensed and un-tensed like a spider flexing its legs. She had been ranting, she knew that. But she thought he understood; that it was only because they had to get Jamie back safe.

Cersei tilted her golden head slightly, looking at her son. Before she would have slapped Joffrey. Told him what to do, ordered him to obey but now she sensed his madness, even as she refused to acknowledge it. She glared at Sandor Clegane, who stood a few paces from the King. He stared at the wall behind her. He may as well be a statue, she thought. A dangerous and deadly statue.

She knew what Joffrey was capable of, it was only what she herself was capable of, so she curtseyed, said false sweetly, 'Of course your Grace, let me leave you in peace,' and backed gracefully from the room. Inside she cursed her luck to have been born a woman who must be at the will and caprice of the men in her life.

Joffrey waited for her handmaidens to follow her like a trail of useless butterflies flitting after a poisonous flower, and then he turned to face his servant. Clegane gazed back at him, dispassionate, bored even. Joffrey thrilled at the size of him. With the Hound at his side everyone must fear him. They must obey him. No one could hurt a golden hair on his head.

Joffrey considered the view behind his Hound. The window framed an expanse of water, gulls hung in the thick, tepid air. What could one do to amuse oneself? The blond boy thought of all his favourite pastimes, all the smaller, weaker creatures he could torment and settled on his favourite receptacle for his cruelty: Sansa Stark. Pale skinned, red haired, his to do with as he pleased and, he thought smugly, it would annoy his mother. It was the perfect afternoon amusement.

'Come dog!' he said and clicked his fingers towards Clegane's face. Joffrey brayed with laughter. The Hound did not ask what he found amusing; he just followed as Joffrey trotted from the room, silently noting how the little King's face was twisted with malevolent glee.


	2. Chapter 2

The city was burning with green flame. The smell of blazing bodies hangs on the smoke filled air and everywhere people are running and screaming. It is all seven hells come to life and Sandor Clegane has just told his little King to fuck himself. The look on Joffrey's face was worth every punishment he might receive for it and now he is going to leave this viper's nest for good. Escape, head North to cooler air and straightforward people. People who killed each other for good reasons, like an insult or the hand of a woman, not elaborate plots designed to win thrones. His head is throbbing from a blow to his skull. North, he thinks, although he is not thinking straight.

North men and women. People with pale skin and blue eyes. Red hair. Beautiful red hair. Stumbling into a doorway to get away from the crowds of people, Sandor shakes his head and closes his eyes for a second; allows himself to think of her, the little bird.

He growls her name, soft between his lips: Sansa. When the green flame had scorched across the water towards him and he had been surrounded by heat and smoke the only image that had come into his mind were his sister's blue eyes, wet with tears and even as he had grasped at the beloved and long forgotten memory the face had turned into the pale skin of Sansa Stark. Help me, her eyes seemed to say, help me, someone help me.

You stupid bugger, he cursed himself, you don't want to go North for any other reason than rescuing that silly girl. Little bird he called her, little caged bird. When he had met her she seemed as daft and simpering as any other well-born lady. Courteous with a head full of fairy tales about gallant knights and courtly love. Fuck that, he thought, laughing gruffly despite the war zone he was standing amidst. Knights are not gallant, knights are killers. I am a killer.

The smoke from the burning city was filling his lungs, sending him mad. He didn't care if all the girls in the land got beaten or raped but he didn't want to see Sansa hurt anymore. He understood now why he had risked himself to warn her at times, to try and make her understand how the court worked. The snakes and traps at every turn, the lies and the danger. She reminded him of his sister, he realised that now. And she reminded him of himself because he guessed Sansa must blame herself for Eddard's death, she had told Joffrey what she knew out of infatuation and foolish love. Stark was dead and Sansa, silly little Sansa had been the one to destroy him because, the Hound thought, sometimes we cause the ones we love to die without meaning to, just through love.

Gregor had murdered their sister because she loved her little brother so much, loved little Sandor. The grown man took in lungfuls of acrid smoke and screamed as memories washed over him, all confused with the images of Sansa being beaten, Sansa telling him his brother was no true knight. Sansa, he screamed. His voice was lost in the dark hell of King's Landing.

Sandor stood up tall and spat blood from his mouth, then rubbed more blood from his face where it was leaking from a slash across his brow. He is wounded. He needs to rest for a moment, gather his senses. He heads towards her chambers. He will take her with him. Rescue her like one of the knights from her stories.

* * *

She isn't there. He pulls the wine skin to his lips again and again. He drinks to forget the horror, to put his sister back into the secret part of his soul where she has been locked for twenty years. Each slug of wine wipes away one horror. He drinks and drinks. He sinks into a confused sleep.

Then he is disturbed as she slams the door, locks it panting. Tall and beautiful, oh she is, just as he had been imagining her. He says nothing, half from drunkenness, half from shock at what he is daring to do. He watches her reach for her doll. Just a girl. Clegane knows he is a monster in her eyes, a scarred, violent monster. All his reasons for rescuing her dry up in his mouth. He speaks to her and she reacts as he imagined she would. Fearfully. Terrified of him. He stands above her; he offers his knightly rescue with gruff words and curses. He offers to take her North and she refuses. He head is swirling with the Dornish Red. Somehow his dagger is in hand and he is pinning her to bed. Sing for me, he begs her. Her sweet voice, her small hand on his cheek and Sandor Clegane knows he is lost. He cannot leave King's Landing, he cannot leave Sansa Stark.

He storms from the bedchamber and returns to the royal quarters, not knowing if he will be forgiven for his transgression on the battlements. All seven gods smile on him as finds a scene of chaos and horror before him. The King's Guard have fled or been killed, the servants have been murdered and Joffrey is wailing like s stuck pig. Stannis' men have made it into the keep. Sandor cuts down and disembowels four men who are about to sever Joffrey's snivelling head from his neck. When they are dead the room is silent and Joffrey weeps. His clothes have been cut from him and he is bruised and bloody. Sandor kneels before him and the little King holds his arms out to be picked up. 'Take me to my mother Clegane. I will reward you for this dog. I will.'

* * *

Things continued much the same in King's Landing. The imp never mentioned the Hound's outburst at the battle so it was as if it had never happened. Sandor knew it wasn't done out of any affection or loyalty to him. The imp was saving it for when it was useful to destroy him, or rather when a dog was no longer useful to the King. Joffrey was elated after he survived his attack and he wanted his dog with him at all times. His favourite people were the Tyrells and his Hound. Joffrey announced in front of the whole court that he would marry Margery Tyrell and gift his Hound three bags of gold coins for saving the King's royal person. And Sansa? She was the daughter of a traitor, the sister of a royal pretender and in Joffrey's eyes, a useless girl to torment. She dreamed of being rescued by a kind Ser. The Hound watched her and drank wine to forget.


	3. Chapter 3

At court there are always plots. Sandor shifted his weight from one leg to another as he stood behind Joffrey and listened to them talk about marrying Sansa to Tyrion. Joffrey was tense, his shoulders humped. He was in a mood. He didn't like this idea, Sandor could tell, because he hadn't thought of it. Cersei was explaining to the foolish twit that Tywin himself had decided it and there would be no discussion about it. Sansa Stark would be married to Tyrion before the week was out. It was the only way to control the North. She left the room in a flurry of scent. Joffrey got up excitedly and began to walk around touching ornaments and babbling to his Hound.

Sandor listened without answering, this was their routine now. Joffrey treated him like a beloved pet. Sandor looked at him, amazed, that he did not sense how much he despised him and his Lannister blood. Lions, shitty mangy creatures with foolish delusions of grandeur. Give me dogs any day, he thought. As Joffrey raged about his mother, Sandor was thinking about killing Sansa Stark to save her from the hell of marrying Tyrion bloody Lannister. He would kill her painlessly and then kill himself. It was the only decent thing to do. He glared at Joffrey's floppy blond hair and weedy neck and thought about throttling him. Soon you little shit, he thought, soon.

There was a banquet that evening. Some ridiculous entertainment the Tyrell girl had dreamt up. Of course, Joffrey was playing the part of the gallant lover, so he had agreed to everything. The palace was awash with masked idiots drunk on wine and lovemaking. It was repulsive when corpses still lay, unburied in the streets. Stannis still plotted to take this city and the little King ignores it all in favour of play acting with Margery. The Hound snorted angrily as he followed Joffrey through the corridors to the great hall where the feast was being piled up in huge mounds of food that no-one would eat. The Hound had worked her, that simpering Margery, out in minutes; a clever, knowing, wise creature who would wrap Joffrey around her buggering little finger. Sandor looked around for Sansa. She clung limply to a pillar, her long, lean body wrapped in silver silks. She looked like a dejected flower. The Hound cursed himself, for thinking such a poetic and ridiculous thing.

As the evening went on and more wine was drunk, Sandor realised it was only the younger members of court there. No Cersei, no Tyrion, no Tywin. He couldn't blame them for avoiding this mummery but it was strange that no-one was here to control Joffrey. The idiot was drunk and was ordering people around imperiously, goaded on by the Tyrells. There was something in the air, an ominous feeling. Sandor moved to the side of the dias where Joffrey was sat with Margery.

'Dog!' Joffrey chortled. 'My loyal dog. Come, sit by my feet like a good dog.' He waved his arm expansively around. 'Look at all my loyal courtiers. Have you ever seen a party such as this, dog?'

Sandor looked at the courtiers, many of whom were shedding their gowns and falling into each other's arms. 'No, my grace, it a celebration like no other.'

Joffrey grinned, 'That is so and you, you saved my life did you not?'

Sandor, his face remaning impassive, nodded.

'You should be rewarded, shouldn't he Margery, he should get a big reward.' Margery smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded. 'Later, my love, not yet,' she said.

Sandor felt the King's madness, it was keen as any blade. What was he planning? He could order him to be killed at any moment, perhaps he was still harbouring a grudge for being insulted on the battlements. Or maybe he was sentimental and foolish about his dog. Either way, Sandor wanted to kill him more than ever. He sat at Joffrey's feet, listening to him sweet talking the Tyrell bitch. All around the tables people were fucking, drinking, eating. All except Sansa, who was trying to blend into the wall near the back of the room, silent and still as a birch tree.

In the moving, heaving room she stood out, a slim streak of white and red. Sandor's eyes were drawn to her again and again. It seemed Joffrey's were too.

'Sansa!' He shrieked, 'Bring Sansa Stark to me now.' The guards hurried to obey him, shoving her down in front of the steps below the dais. The musicians stopped playing and laughter rang out. Her small, white hands were centimetres away from the Hound's foot. She raised her eyes and gazed straight into his fuming grey pair. She didn't shiver, or flinch but turned to look at Joffrey who was shrieking excitedly above them, like a parrot stuck in a bag.

Sandor heard Margery Tyrell whisper, 'Now, do it now.'

What plot was this? Sandor felt rage and fear surface within him but he simply stood up to stand behind the King, a good dog knew his place but the Tyrell slut reached out an elegant hand and grabbed his arm, 'No, you are needed here Clegane. This is your reward.' Her smile was only in her lips; her eyes were as flat and cold as an adder.

Joffrey was delighted with himself. 'Everyone, this is no simple feast I have organised. This is a wedding!' The crowd went silent. Every single person was thinking, what would Tywin do to the people at the wedding? What would Joffrey do to us if we leave? The atmosphere was thick like congealing blood. Sansa moaned, just once, a defeated and soft sound.

'She's yours Dog, yours for the taking. You can take her right here on the steps in front of us all, in fact I insist. But first you are going to marry her so no-one can alter what I have ordered. I will decide who Sansa will marry. Me! Not my mother or grandfather, me…' Joffrey's voice broke off into a babble of nonsensical gibberish, smiling at Margery. The Tyrell woman was watching the events unfold; this was her doing, this helped her cause somehow.

Joffrey kicked the prone form of Sansa. He grinned widely as he ordered the Hound to pick her up. Tears were falling down her cheeks, she was limp like a doll, and Joffrey loved it. This was cruellest punishment he could imagine. His dog fucking Sansa, marrying her to him, forcing her live her life as a lowly Clegane. Ruining his grandfather's plans. A fat Septon, not the High Septon who should have overseen a noble marriage, was ushered in. He trembled, sweat trickling down his ruddy cheeks, this was a man in fear for his life.

Sandor thought about killing everyone, killing the whole room but he felt a desire creeping up his furious spine. Marriage, to this lovely, sweet girl. Joffrey thought he was punishing her but he, Sandor, could ruin his plans by marrying her and helping her to escape. If he didn't consummate the marriage she could be free, free of Joffrey. There was no way Sandor could kill this girl to save her from King's Landing but he could marry her.

Sandor held onto the slender, swaying form of Sansa. She leant into his side, she did not protest or scream but repeated the words she was supposed to and bent her head as Sandor flung his heavy white cloak around her shoulders, making her his in the eyes of the world.

'Kiss her!' Screeched Joffrey and the Hound bent his broken face towards the silken skin of his young wife. He expected her to be repulsed but she held her face upwards like a flower turning towards the sun and she said, almost just shaping the words not speaking them, be gentle. Sandor felt a great grief wash over him as her small hand took his, so trusting, so perfect; he had to save her from this. He would not take her in front of this mob, in front of this insane bastard. Sandor gritted his teeth, turned his huge shoulder towards Joffrey and pulled Sansa to his chest so her face was hidden from the crowd. He easily lifted her so her feet were off the floor.

Sandor roared, he bellowed at the crowd who all took a step back and then he addressed Joffrey. 'My King, this is the greatest honour because I know you want her to be fucking punished, as you have long told me, for her traitors blood and believe me I will punish her hard.' He growled again and shook Sansa. Joffrey raised his arms and cheered like a capering fool. His eyes glowed with blood lust and Sandor longed to kill the buggering blond idiot, but he had to be cunning, save the little bird who was limp in his arms. They had to leave, because Tywin would be here any moment and he would take her from him and kill him without a second thought.

'My King,' he repeated more softly, 'Give me this one thing, for saving you that night, let me take her to my room and begin my punishments tonight. I work better alone.'

Joffrey looked at the towering bulk of his Hound and he did not doubt for one moment that he would hurt Sansa. Joffrey felt sentiment for his Hound, the reminder of that fateful night he was saved brought out a maudlin generosity. 'Yes,' he breathed, 'Yes Dog, take her and get her full of puppies.'

The Hound didn't wait to hear another word, he scooped Sansa up and ran from the room, his armour clanking, the unconscious form of the girl small in his huge arms and he took her straight past his room and on towards the stables.


	4. Chapter 4

Rain, soft as a mother's touch, fell on Sansa's cheek. She was being rocked in Catelyn's arms, she was safe. She wanted to stay here, in this dream, half conscious forever. She did not want to wake up and stare into the Hound's evil face, his twisted mouth that sneered at her. Sansa knew what he thought of her- she was a silly, stupid, simpering bird. A bird who had lied about Joffrey's behaviour and reported her father's plans to Cersei. What a fool she had been. Lulled into a false sense of security by their beautiful, golden pelts.

How elegant they all were, how luxurious. Even Tyrion shone with his silken words, his Lannister charm. Sansa had wept so many useless tears over Joffrey. It had been like biting into the prettiest red apple to find the rotten flesh beneath. Her golden Prince had broken every girlish dream and then he had become the King of nightmares. At times, during the wolf hour of the night Sansa would lie frozen in her bed unable to sleep as the twisted face of Joffrey appeared before her, his joy at showing her Eddard's head on spike. The squeals of delight he made as Ser Meryn beat her, his evil stare as he cast her off for Margery and his foul promise of using her body even after he was married.

It was nothing less than she deserved; how could she ever face her mother again with the knowledge that she had betrayed her own father…and now he was dead and all that was left in her world was the Hound. She flicked her wet eyes open for a second. She was held tight against his chest. The light was creeping across the land and the scent of earth and rising dew filled her nose. The Hound was silent, only the horse snickered occasionally. The light flickered in stripes, dark and then bright. We are passing through trees, she thought.

The Hound smelt like her brothers, of leather and metal polish and something else, something that was unique to him. It wasn't unpleasant, not like the night he had come to take her away.

That night he had smelt like sour vomit and blood, the very scent of death. He had been drunk and insane with bloodlust and fatality but she had sensed he would not hurt her. He enjoyed laughing at her, telling her she was daft and silly but he didn't want to hurt her. He actually seemed to keep her safe at times. Like the time she had nearly shoved Joffrey from the bridge and the Hound had stopped her. Her head would have been on a spike or worse. Cersei would have tortured her for killing her beloved boy. She couldn't understand why the Hound cared, was it care even, but she appreciated his lack of obvious cruelty towards her.

Sansa turned her face towards his neck, trying to place the scent. His skin was unblemished here, softer than she expected. A vulnerable chink in his armour; if I had a knife I could stab him there.

The thought surprised her but there was a part of Sansa that was as tough as Arya, as practical as Jon. I am a Stark, she said to herself and then she remembered: I am a Clegane now. She sighed and sank against him again but as her skin touched him she felt him pull away from her. He is repulsed by me, she thought.

He reined the horse to a standstill and lifted her down. She slid into a sitting position, an incongruous sight amid the bushes and grass. Silver gown and moonstones shone like fallen stars.

'You're awake.' He observed gruffly and swung his huge body from the back of the black horse. He stood over her and she shrank back from his furious face.

'I'm sorry Ser,' She stammered, 'I, I mean, my….' Her voice faded into silence as she wondered what to call him. She knew he hated being called a Knight and she couldn't call him Sandor, it felt wrong to address him thus, too intimate. In her mind she always called him the Hound because he was so feral and wild, like a beast penned at court. Now he was her husband.

He barked at her, 'I told you girl, not to call me Ser and I damn well meant it.'

Sansa tried to back away from him but she was hindered by the folds of her cobweb thin gown. Trying to stand she realised she was barefooted and anyway, she couldn't flee far as there were thorn filled bushes behind her. She got to her feet and stood looking at him. She was a tall girl and she still only came up to shoulder. He looked down at her with a scowl on his scarred face. Sansa knew better than to flinch away so she gazed straight into his grey, stormy eyes.

'The horses are tired, girl. We shall rest awhile and then you will ride the mare. Don't think I'm going to carry you around like a princess.'

Sansa looked at the brown horse that was tethered behind the black. It looked terrified too. The Hound stamped around, leading them deeper into a copse. The trees huddled around them, blocking out the light of the rising sun.

'Make a fire.' He snapped, throwing her a bundle of sticks. He glared at her as she stumbled to obey him. Sansa had never made a fire before; she had always let Arya do it so she wouldn't get her pretty hands dirty. How she wished Arya was here, with her sharp tongue and brave soul. She would have protected her from the Hound. But Arya was lost, another thing that can be traced back to my actions, Sansa thought morbidly.

She bundled the sticks into a fire like pile and then stared at them. Her long fingers reached around for kindling but the ground was bare. Her blue eyes filled with tears as she contemplated the dry sticks.

'It's not going to light from the power of your thoughts, you daft bird. Here, get out of they way.' Sandor shooed her towards the horses. 'Look in the pack, change your clothes. That frippery is only designed to make men rip it off you. Stupid dress.'

Sansa hurried to do as she was told. There was one pack and it held few items but there was a woollen gown and a thin cloak. She took them and changed behind a wide oak. They fitted badly but they were warm. She stepped out and looked back at the tall man. He was on his knees blowing the sparks to get the fire lit. He has a look of grim determination on his face and she remembered how he had told her the story of his scars. The toy he had played with and Gregor holding his face in the coals. She shuddered; pity filled her as she imagined the child he had been, screaming in agony.

'I can do it,' she said hurridly, putting her hand on his shoulder and pulling gently, 'I will see to it.' He didn't protest, just sat back on his haunches and watched her. She glanced at him as she blew at the sticks, for reassurance. He nodded, yes, that's it, that's how you make a fire. They kept eye contact as she sat next to the fire and fed it dry kindling that he threw to her. She had never really looked at his eyes, or studied his face before. Always flinching away, always afraid of him. The Hound stared at her face, he seemed to be trying to look right into her thoughts, different expressions flitted across his shrewd eyes. She couldn't read them.

'Where are you…I mean what is…are we…can you…?' She tried to ask him about their marriage without offending him or making him angry. She was scared of his biting tongue. 'Why did you agree to marr..'

He interrupted her with a forbidding low growl. 'Got to get warm, eat something. Rest. They will be coming after us.' Then he leaned against the trunk of the tree and fell asleep. Sansa stared into the little, flickering flames. She was deeply afraid of what the Hound intended to do with her but she knew, without any doubt, she was more afraid of returning to King's Landing, and to Joffrey.


	5. Chapter 5

How long had he slept? He wasn't sure. He squinted through the trees; the sun was high, long hours had passed. The little bird was still asleep, her pretty head tucked under her wing next to the embers of the fire. The horses cropped grass together, Stranger nipping the mare if she tried to eat a clump of grass he had already decided was his due. The mare stepped away from him and kept out of his reach but always returned to stand near him.

Sandor was tired. Exhausted, and he hadn't even begun their escape. They had to keep moving but he was loath to wake her. Instead he looked at her long slender limbs and marvelled that they were here, together. She was snoring softly. He allowed himself to smile; even that sounded refined and elegant. How ladylike she was. How pretty and delicate. How breakable. Seven buggering hells, what a fucking mess he was in.

He was on the run with a ruined face that everyone recognised and a bride who didn't know the first thing about surviving in the wild. Stuck with Sansa fucking Stark in the middle of a forest. They were doomed. Tywin would have sent men after them to being them back. Well, bring Sansa back. He would be murdered where he stood. I'd like to see them try, he thought. He fingered his dagger. Who am I fooling? The whole might of the Lannister's after you. The Starks. Might be wiser to make a quick job of it and kill us both now. Dark thoughts rose in his mind like muddy tide water and he grimaced.

She sat up then, rubbing her Tully blue eyes with her little fists, pouting and perplexed. He could see her thinking, where am I?

'You're in a fucking damp wood with me, girl.' He laughed. 'Bit different from handmaids washing you and doing your hair in stupid shapes.'

'My hair did not look stupid,' Sansa snapped at him, fire flashing in her eyes. 'Why were you even looking at my hair?'

'Couldn't avoid it, you were always parading around like a peacock in front of me.'

'I was not parading!' Sansa, open-mouthed with indignant ire huffed at him. 'You should not speak like that to me. It is not polite to insult me, Ser.' Sansa reprimanded him like he was an over bold knight. It made him grin even wider, which terrified her more than a gruff word or sharp shake.

He got up and came towards her, 'What did I say about calling me Ser?'

Sansa clasped her hands together and bowed her head. 'I am so sorry.'

'Always so courteous, eh little bird, but where did your courtesies get you at court?'

'Etiquette and courtesy saved me from their anger. I did nothing they could fault me for.' Her voice trembled and trilled like the bird she was.

'It got you married to a dog, that's what it did. And here we are. Here we are.'

There he had mentioned it. It was in the open now, between the two of them. They were married. He reached out and touched her hair where it was hanging over her face, it was so soft. He lifted her chin and stared into her eyes.

'You are so young, I am an old man compared to you. A rough, old dog not fit to piss near you.'

'You will not hurt me.' She said it with a steely edge, as if saying it would make it true. Still, she backed away from slightly.

'I thought that was so girl, but now, standing here alone with you I want to push you down and have you.' Sandor was staring at her white throat, the swell of her breasts. My Gods, he thought, she is beyond lovely. Her long legged shape, the tremble in her skin, her limpid eyes; it made her look like a frightened deer. Sandor felt lust rise up him, all trace of tiredness vanishing. What did a hound do with a deer? They pursued and ripped them apart. He growled, reached out for her shoulders and pulled her roughly towards him. She smelt like the kind of flowers that opened at night, intoxicating. He pushed his face into her hair and she beat his chest with her hands but it was like a mouse batting at a cat.

She was a woman, she had flowered. She was his wife, for fucks sake, he had every right to take her here. His cock was hard, he wanted her now, and he was going to have her. Her body was so perfectly shaped, he groaned and ran his hands up her back, she's a woman, he thought. My woman. Then his mind slipped to the memory of how she had set fire to the evidence of her womanhood because she was so terrified of Joffrey taking her into his bed. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

Cursing, every foul word he could think of, he pushed her down to the floor and stalked away. He headed deep into the dark centre of the forest. He didn't even care if she fled. Let her run, if that's what she wanted. He focused on finding some food. Killing something would make him feel a hell of a lot better.

When he returned, a small deer flung over his broad shoulder, the girl was sat as if she was in church. Neat back, folded hands on her lap. Serene expression on her beautiful damn face. Sandor scowled. What the hell had he expected. Tears? Entreaties? Or for her to be far, far away from him. The fact she was still here confused him and he felt like a bear stumbling around in front of her.

'I'm going to show you how to butcher this animal. In case anything happens to me and you have to look after yourself. Come here.'

She got up and did as she was told and he passed her small, sharp knife. 'This is for you. Now watch.'

He skinned and dismembered the deer, effortlessly and efficiently. Sansa watched, trying to hide her revulsion at the blood and the deer's little face which looked so surprised and sad. She managed to do some of it after he had taught her. He was pleased with her. They cooked it and ate well, neither of them saying a word. Then they packed what was left of the meat into the bag and hid all traces of the fire.

'It's time to go now; we must make as much distance as we can before the horses tire.' Sandor spoke as gently as he could manage but it still sounded like a growl.

Sansa mounted her mare with grace. At least Ned Stark taught her to ride, he thought. And they left the dark clearing and headed out into the noon day sun.


	6. Chapter 6

For a few moments, Sansa didn't hear anything, and then with a rush the sound of the forest came back. Birds were still calling. The horses were still cropping grass in noisy mouthfuls. She realised she was panting loudly. She tried to stand up but she couldn't steady her legs. She looked anxiously towards the gap in the trees where he had left her. Why had he dropped her to the floor like that? Why had he cursed at her? Didn't he want her? Her head was swirling with unanswered questions. She raised a hand to her flushed cheek and took some deep, slow breathes.

When he had grabbed her she had felt angry with him for trying to sleep with her in the forest like some animal. She wasn't angry that he had wanted to; they were married. It was his right to take her at some point.

Sansa burst into angry, childish tears when she realised she was affronted with the Hound for not taking her in a marriage bed, with candles and roses. She was still fixated on the fairytale. Sansa laughed bitterly. This was no fairytale. The Hound was not a gallant knight who would present her with gifts and poems. He was a man, a huge, angry man who was going to force her when he felt like it and there was nothing she could do about it.

She got up and went towards the mare. 'What is your name?' Sansa stroked the velvet brown coat and jumped when Stranger butted her in the back.

She turned to the black stallion, warily moving out of his reach. 'Jealous? Or do you hate me too?'

Sansa was aware of how petty she sounded, how pathetic and silly. If the Hound had heard her he would have laughed at her. Where was he? She peered into the murky trees but he did not appear. Sansa felt abandoned and vulnerable. The Hound's presence was extremely reassuring. She knew he could and would kill anyone who tried to hurt them. Sansa sat by a tree and waited for him.

When he made her butcher the deer with him, Sansa wondered if he was being cruel to her. But his attitude and manner were gentle and precise. He really wanted her to learn something useful. What good were tapestry and lute lessons right now. They had to survive this situation and there were enemies who would kill them if they found them. That meant staying in the wilderness, far away from people. That must be what the Hound intends, Sansa thought, as she looked at his dexterous fingers carve up the meat. Sansa knew that Joffrey would want revenge for this humiliation. He had wanted to see Sansa broken by the Hound and now she had slipped from the cage.

They rode until the horses could go no further and it was the thickest kind of darkness. There was no moon in the sky to light there way.

'Come, girl. Follow me closely. We are going to leave the path.'

Sansa felt like she would slip from her horse soon but she pulled the rein and followed him. It as hard to see Stranger but she could hear his hooves hit the soil. They didn't go far from the path, just to an outcrop of rocks that jutted out over a wooded valley. Not that she could see anything, but the Hound's rough voice told her it was so. Sansa felt helpless in the cloying darkness, reliant on this man to lead her.

'Shall I make the fire again?'

'No.' His voice snapped like a broken stick. 'We can't risk a fire, it would alert anyone travelling this way.' The Hound tethered the horses under a thick wooded band of trees and held his hand out for Sansa to take it. 'We shall shelter here for the night,' he said, and pointed to a small crack in the rocks. Stepping between the rocks it was possible to just make out a small cave. It wasn't a large cavern, just a curved hole that formed a space where two people could lie sheltered from the elements.

'Have you been here before?' Sansa whispered.

'No, girl, I'm just used to sleeping outside. I know what to look for when I want shelter.'

They settled down in the rocky space, sat cross legged next to each other. The Hound produced a small ceramic jar with a thick, stubby candle in it. He lit it with his flint box and placed it between them. It cast a small light but it was comforting. The Hound was dressed in his armour; it clanked in the small space. 'Help me take it off.' No please. No thank you. No conversation at all. Just barked out orders. She struggled to unbuckle the different pieces. It grazed her fingers so they began to bleed but she didn't complain, just kept pulling at the straps until she removed it all. The Hound piled it behind him and covered it with his pack. Now he was sat in his breeches and rough linen shirt. He still looked menacing in the cramped space. He was gazing down at his large hands; his broadsword lay by his feet.

Sansa was perplexed rather than frightened. She was unsure of the etiquette required in this situation. Her white skin was smudged from the road. Sweat had matted her red hair into thick cords. She was embarrassed about the scent of horse that emanated from her gown.

More than these physical strains, Sansa was unsure about what he wanted from her. Would he try to ravish her again or would he ignore her.

Sandor groaned softly. 'I would kill a hundred men for a bag of wine.'

'The Queen kept trying to give me wine. I did not like it.' Sansa primly tried to arrange her skirt so it covered her muddy calf.

'Seven hells, girl, it is the only thing you can rely on in this blasted life.'

'What do you mean Hou…Clegane?'

He snorted and looked up at her. 'Wine delivers what it promises.'

'And what is that?' She fluttered her fingers against her cheek, nervous of his reaction.

'Oblivion.' He reached for her hand, 'You're bleeding.'

'It is nothing, nothing, just a graze.' Sansa didn't try to move her small hand out of his large one but sat still. Sandor stared at her white palm that was dwarfed against his. His skin was warm and rough but it felt very safe in this wild world. His hair was hanging around his face, covering his scars and twisted mouth. He looked tired and unhappy.

'Why did you marry me?' Sansa had to know.

'I thought it would save you from that bastard Joffrey.' The truth, pure and clean like the night sky. He looked at her, then jerked her toward his ruined face. 'Why didn't you scream and run away, little bird, why did you say the damn words that Joffrey wanted you to say? Why did you let them marry you to me, of all people?' His words were getting louder and he was shaking. His red and blackened scars were so close to her she could see the ridges like an entangled mess of embroidery threads.

Sansa waited for him to stop speaking. She bravely placed both her hands on his cheeks, the stubbly gaunt side, that was burning hot and the cool, hard scar tissue on the other. 'I thought that if I didn't do what he said he would kill me. He is insane. He hates me. I thought I had no choice.' She paused as he stared at her with his slate eyes full of some strange emotion. 'I thought he would make you kill me,' she whispered.

'Seven buggering hells.' Sandor breathed out in one long, agonised breath. 'I could never hurt you, little bird.'

They stared at each other for long moments then he pulled her to lie next to him and covered them both with their cloaks. His body loomed over her but he only put his arm beneath her head so she didn't have to put it on the hard floor. His heartbeat was strong and steady. Outside the cave the wind screeched through the trees. The branches creaked and shook against each other making fell sounds. The world was a storm out there. It is warm here, Sansa thought, it warm in here with the Hound.


	7. Chapter 7

She had fallen asleep in seconds, a sweet smile upon her pretty pink lips. Sandor Clegane was holding his own wife in his arms and her long, beautiful body was pressed against every part of his own. Her feet twined with his, her slender legs against his hard thighs, seeking out the warmth of his body to warm her own. She was turned slightly toward him so her breasts pressed against his broad chest.

How wondered if she had any idea how utterly fuckable she looked right now. Mouth slightly open. Red eyelashes fluttering against her porcelain cheeks. The luscious swell of her teats right there for him to feast his eyes upon in the candlelight, the absolute whiteness of her skin, the parts the sun never dared to touch. It was more than a man could stand. He could feel his cock straining at his breeches, desperate to be inside her.

He had often stared at her when she was near him at court; let his eyes flicker over her. There was nothing else to look at in that Gods forsaken place. The little bird in her elegant plumage had always stood out. What man at court hadn't let his eyes move over her long legs and swelling breasts and thought how they would like her to warm their beds. She would have been wasted on that Baratheon brat.

Joffrey was a fucking evil little sadist. He didn't see Sansa's body and desire to make her sing, no, Joffrey wanted to make her scream out in agony and despair. Well that was never going to happen now, Sandor thought, as he moved her lithe body closer to his own and she moaned prettily in her sleep. What was she dreaming of? Not him, not the scarred and ugly old dog.

He grimaced in disgust, aware of his ugly visage and tried to move away from her but she followed him, pushing her body harder against him. This was unbearable, she was so sweet, he could barely resist making her his wife in truth if she pushed against him like that. Did she see him as a husband or just her protector? Sandor thought about what she had just said to him, that she had been afraid Joffrey would make him kill her. Her tone had seemed more concerned for him having to do the act than losing her own life.

She was a mysterious girl, this little bird. Stitched out of courtesies and fairytales, obsessed with love songs and honour. He rightly should despise her but his thoughts had returned to her again and again, circled around her night after night. He had stopped seeing whores and spent his seed in his hand with her name on his lips, her face in his mind. She longed for a handsome knight and fate had sent her a beast from her nightmares…yet here she was, willingly lay in his arms.

Sandor gently skimmed his fingers down her collar bone. Her skin was softer than anything he had ever touched, softer than a foal or the belly of a pup. He couldn't help himself, he leant forward and buried his burnt face into the silken warmth of her neck, filled his nose with her flowery scent. Gods, she smelt delicious. He softly licked her clavicle and kissed her neck. She stirred in her sleep and turned her face to him. Sandor kissed her full on the mouth. In his arms, she felt light. Her mouth was soft and opened for him like a lily. Her tongue instinctively touched his and lust possessed him. He ran his hand over her breasts and felt her nipples beneath the rough cloth. He wanted to push her skirts up and fuck her, hells, he wanted it more than anything, his cock ached for her.

Her body was enjoying and responding to what he was doing to her, enjoying the closeness, the warmth he was giving her. This, her first kiss, done whilst she was slumbering, in an exhausted dream filled sleep. Sandor knew that if he went any further with his kisses and caresses she would wake up and react like the cultured young woman she was. She would scream at him, reprimand him, remind him of what a filthy dog he was. He was supposed to be protecting her, keeping her warm, feeding her, killing her enemies. Return her to her family. But instead he was taking advantage of an unconscious girl. He hated himself right now but the kisses had tasted so sweet, when she had kissed him back he had nearly come in his breeches like a young boy. He had never kissed a woman so clean and pure before.

This is secret fucking, he thought, kissing her again and feeling her moan softly in his mouth. Her nipples were hardening under his fingertips. His hands were huge, rough and scarred like the rest of him, but right now they were light and tender. He kissed her eyelids, nuzzled his face against her neck again. His hand skimmed her breasts, down the flat stomach and he laid it against her cunt. She was so damn hot here; he could feel the heat and swell of her womanhood through the woollen gown.

Sansa groaned; a deeper, more primal sound. Sandor looked at her in the flickering candlelight, his dark grey eyes were hazy with lust and he knew that if he touched her again she would wake up, she was already stirring a little, moving her delicate fingers and shifting her weight in his arms. It took all his willpower to place her carefully onto the floor and stand up, his huge body shaking, he staggered out of the cave and into the dark night. He didn't go far before he sank to the floor by a tree, took his desperate, throbbing cock into his hand and jerked himself to his release. It only took two or three strokes and he was thinking of her skin, her smell, her nipples, her sweet cunt.

* * *

She had been dreaming, dreaming of the Hound. He had taken her by the hand and led her to a hot, steaming pool in the middle of a forest filled with golden trees. He had undressed her and washed her in the hot water and the steam was swirling around them, making it hard to see him. She could feel him kissing her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Then he had disappeared from sight completely and she had moaned for him to stay; she tried to reach out for him. Then she felt his big hands on her thighs, his rough face pressing between her legs and his tongue lapping at her and even though she felt shame and embarrassment, Sansa felt herself push her womanhood toward him but his face kept moving away. It was so infuriating, her body wanted him to kiss her there…the pool was so hot and warm and wet.

Sansa sat up. She was alone. The candle had guttered out but the first rays of the dawn sun were lighting the cave. She lay back down and groaned in frustration. What a disgusting and terrible dream, she immediately thought, but her body betrayed her as she could feel the pool of wetness between her thighs. Her hands reached for her breasts and rubbed them, trying to satisfy the ache she felt in them but the ache was centred lower, in her wet woman's place. Curiously, almost instinctively Sansa let one slender arm drape down her body and lifted her skirt. Her elegant fingers crept beneath her small clothes to feel the silken folds of her womanhood. They were so swollen and wet. She gasped and looked at her fingertips. No red, no moon blood. What was this wetness? Gently, so gently she moved her finger up and down the fold there until the moved across a harder nub of flesh at the top, hidden in the red hair that grew there.

She gasped as she touched it, felt her thighs tense and an image of the Hound's face pressed between her legs filled her mind. No, she thought, pulling her hand away and smoothing her dress down. That is not ladylike. She tried to wipe her hand on the cloth. She felt shame and embarrassment. Only fragments of images remained and they slipped away even as she thought about them. She knew what these dreams meant. She had been having dreams like this for a while and she had talked about them with Jeyne, her dear friend, who had explained it meant she was ready for a husband. She usually dreamed of faceless knights adorned with flowers who would place her on an embroidered bed of jewelled cushions and kiss her. None of those dreams had made her so wet between her legs.

But she had never dreamt of the Hound before. Sansa felt a rich, crimson blush cover her chest and her face. It was outrageous and terrible, he was mutilated, a monster that killed people every day without a shadow of remorse. Yes, she had pity for him and she was grateful he had not hurt her thus far but how could she think those kind of filthy, unmentionable thoughts about him. What would her Septa think of her? A Lady would never entertain thoughts like that about a servant. And then Sansa remembered; he wasn't her servant. He was her husband.


	8. Chapter 8

He marched them as fast as the horses would stand, out of the woods and onto the King's Road, heading North. It was risky, they were much more likely to meet other travellers but Sandor wanted to make time, get further away from King's Landing. Sansa had helped him get the horses ready and they had eaten the last of their meat, all without speaking to each other. She had timidly asked him a few questions and he had barked his answers at her. He was full of concern about the dangers they were in but he couldn't tell the silly, cheeping bird that. Any moment brigands could find them. They had no real plan. They would need to find some food before this evening.

Perhaps North was the wrong way. Sandor needed to find out what the young wolf Robb Stark was doing and where he was camped with his buggering army. The only way to find this out was to talk to other people, the exact thing they were trying to avoid.

'Sandor…' The little bird called to him from her mare. He ignored her and kept riding. He felt a rush of emotion when she used his given name.

He heard her urge her horse forward and she trotted to ride next to him. He stared ahead but he could feel her staring at him. He risked a look at her and she was upset, tears filling her round, blue eyes. Seven Hells, what had he done to make her cry? Was it his groping of her in the cave? Or his rough words this morning.

'Sandor,' she repeated in a plaintive voice, 'Husband, where are we going?'

He nearly fell off Stranger when she said husband, but he pretended to adjust the saddle bag until he regained his composure. 'North, girl. A good Hound must deliver the little bird to her brother.'

Sansa didn't reply to that but went quiet. They walked in silence for another mile then she said. 'Do you know where Robb is?'

'No.'

'So how will we find him?'

'Finding a man isn't hard, especially when he is King in the fucking North.'

'What will happen when we get there?'

'What do you mean, girl? Your brother will give you a clean dress to cover your arse better than that piece of shit I got for you and I will be lucky if he doesn't cut off my head. No love for this Hound in the North.'

'He wouldn't kill you, you rescued me!' Sansa clumsily tried to grab his arm but their horses walked at different paces and she missed his armour and fell forward on her saddle so her hair fell in disarray over her face. I will not comfort you, he thought, however beautiful you look.

Instead he growled in his rough, low voice, 'I didn't rescue you, we just ran from an utter mad bastard.'

Sansa sniffled and tried to re-arrange her ravaged hair. Stranger reached across and nipped the brown mare. Sansa burst into tears. It was a difficult morning.

It was late afternoon after no lunch and only one drink of water. They were both angry and fatigued. The Hound made Sansa ride ahead because he had an unsettling feeling about them being followed or some danger approaching from behind. Something wasn't right. Sansa was slumped in her saddle, half asleep. Her horse was exhausted and they had to stop soon. He wasn't sure where they were exactly and if there was a village or inn nearby. It was then he heard the hooves, far off behind them, just as he had feared. Horses, galloping, lots of horses.

'Quick girl, off the road, hurry.' He jumped off Stranger's back and pulled him towards Sansa. He grabbed her reins and led both horses away from the open expanse of the King's Road and into the shadow of the trees. He headed straight down a sharp bank that led to a river that wound its way through the bottom of a small valley. There were willow trees growing along the banks and he hid the horses within the dense drooping branches. Then he took up a vantage point between two branches that allowed a view of the road above them. Here, he could see the riders when they passed by. Sansa clung to his arm in fear. The river trickled merrily along behind them and the horses were drinking from the shallow, muddy edge.

The first rider that galloped past was clearly dressed in the gold and red garb of a Lannister man and Sansa began to panic and sob louder. Sandor shook her, gently but firmly. 'Pull yourself together, before you give us away, you daft creature.'

Two, then three more riders cantered past, all focused on the road ahead of them. Then long minutes passed before two men reined their mounts in right above where they were hiding. One got off and pulled a flask from his saddle, he drank deeply and laughed with the other man, still mounted. Their voices floated down to the two hiding by the bank.

I could kill them easily, the Hound thought, as he gripped his sword. His heart sank as many other riders, a whole regiment of men began to catch up with the outriders and mill around above them. Snippets of conversations rose and fell as they all shared hip flasks and pissed down the bank toward the river. Sansa was swooning now, silent and ridged against the tree. Her breasts were heaving in the top of her dress. The Hound looked at her. She was his wife but she was still a maiden. If they killed him they would take her back and marry her to whomever they pleased. Did he want to die, never having fucked her? No, he buggering well did not.

In absolute silence he pulled Sansa towards him, keeping one eye on the troops above them. He slipped his dagger from his belt and cut the front of her dress open so her breasts were bared completely. Her eyes were huge and terrified. She thinks I am going to kill her, he thought, and he handed her the dagger. It dropped to the floor in her nerveless fingers. With both hands he kneaded her breasts, his mouth was grim and determined but his fingers were reverent and sensual. His rough skin contrasted intoxicatingly with the sheer, delicate skin covering her breasts. Her nipples were hard and he rubbed and twisted them, stroking each one until she mewed softly like a quiet little kitten. His mouth smiled at her reaction, the ruined side of his lip twisted into a grimace but lust filled his eyes and made them truly beautiful; needy, dark and compelling. Her head lolled backwards as he roughly took her into his arms and began to kiss her neck, hard, demanding kisses.

The men on the top of the bank were still calling to one another and drinking. One of them said, shall we water the horses now? Sandor froze, his hand halfway up Sansa's skirt. Another man said, we better catch up with with the others first and another contradicted him; it wouldn't hurt to let them drink before we leave.

They began to argue about it and Sandor felt the familiar excitement of bloodlust rise in him as he prepared to kill anyone who came near them, but coupled with this was an absolute desire for the red headed woman in his arms. 'I'm going to take you now, Sansa,' he muttered into her ear, 'Right now, it may hurt, little bird, but you are my wife and I am going to have you, now.' She didn't answer, just clung onto him, trembling.

He was hard and ready to come, just touching her perfect breasts had been enough. He turned her away from him so she faced the tree but he held her tight, lifting her skirt up and supporting her with his huge arm. He ripped her underclothes off and revealed her naked arse, as round and sweet as any peach. Her legs were long and slim, white as the Northern snow. Sandor undid his breeches and let his cock free, he was hot and very hard. He was a big man and his manhood was no different, this would hurt the little bird, but his body was on fire with lust and terror. Any moment these men would come and catch them. He had to have her first. All the time he caressed her arse with his free hand, his eyes were looking up at his enemies. Killing and fucking, he thought, the only things that make a man feel alive.

He grabbed her arse in his hand and squeezed her flesh, it felt so good he thought he might come all over her. Instead moved his fingers to stroke her soft cunt and slid a finger inside her. She was quivering but not resisting him and as his finger explored her hot flesh he was amazed to feel wetness there that he had not expected. He held her against his body and murmured incoherent endearments to her as he slid the tip of his cock against her. He pushed against her, leaning against the tree for balance, trying to enter her as slowly as he could. She was tight, Gods, she was tight. It was all he could do not to howl in his pleasure. Taking her like a dog with his bitch was so filthy he nearly came undone before he even got fully inside her, her lean body pulled tight against him, his hand seeking out her breasts again to rub her nipples as he thrust in a fraction further.

The men above were still arguing, the birds were still squawking in the trees, the river still flowed nosily and they fucked so slowly and quietly, he rocked her in his arms, angling her body onto his cock. His hand slid down her and found the front of her cunt, found that little bit of flesh women loved to have sucked and licked. He would do that to her one day soon, he thought, if we live through this. For a big beast of a man, he was skilled with his fingers and he lazily stroked his fingers over her each time he thrust into her a little more. He felt her respond, her pretty head pushed back into his shoulder, revealing her white neck. He huffed into it, groaning softly. He was so strong, holding her like she weighed nothing.

He had slid his way into her, he felt her maidenhead barring his way, her hot, wet cunt was surely the greatest thing he had ever felt. He couldn't hold on any longer, he wanted to come so very much. He observed their enemies through a lust haze, fear of death made everything feel more vivid, more satisfying. One man was attempting to lead his horse down the bank to the water, Sandor watched him, calculating the time he had before he would have to pick up his sword. Leaning harder into the tree and lifting her arse higher he slammed into her as he began to rub her. She gasped out loud, her noises lost in the gurgle of the stream. Oh Gods, she was perfect, so tight, so hot, so damn sweet.

The man who was still struggling with the steepness of the bank was being urged to return. Riders were mounting their steeds and heading off along the road. The lone rider gave up trying to make it to where the river lay, he turned cursing and scrambled back to the King's Road with no idea the two he sought were fucking in a tangled, sweaty mess below him. He mounted his horse and galloped away.

Sandor could feel Sansa's wetness covering his hand and she was panting now. _Come with me little bird_, he whispered to her, _my little wife, my wife_ and he felt her peak, her cunt clenching his cock so beautifully, the deep, low scream she let out like she had been holding it the whole time and knew he couldn't last much longer, he pulled out of her and slowly back in, he wanted it to last forever but it was so damn good, out and then in, so fucking warm and wet, he thought, then with a growl he spilled his seed deep inside her.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa swooned; all she could see was pure white light, then she felt like she was falling. Falling into nothingness, where there was no death, no threats, nothing except the feeling of the Hound inside her, his fingers on her private place.

When he had yanked her down the bank, the horses stumbling behind them, Sansa had started to feel a dark wave of utter despair. The Hound was visibly distressed; his worry was written in the wild fear in his eyes. If he was afraid, then what hope was there? She had hidden under the willow where he had shoved her, clinging to the trunk, her bare feet cold on the muddy bank.

The Hound had stood staring up the slope, his huge body solid like a statue. He kept glancing at her, his eyes flicking from her face to the road. Then the riders had come, the sound of their horses pounding the road was like the tolling of a death bell. They were coming for her. To take her back to Joffrey. No. No. No. She had a felt a scream build up inside her, she imagined a sharp pain in her throat as if her head was already severed and pierced with a sharp spike. Sansa felt numb, like she was already dead. She felt ice in her blood and her mind was blackened with images of torture and pain.

It was then the unthinkable happened. The Hound had fixed his eyes on her; they looked unfathomable, black with some unexplainable emotion. Sansa felt like he looking into her soul, like he was saying, this is the end for us little bird. He had inexplicably cut her dress open to her waist and felt her breasts, despite all the fear of discovery she could see this mattered to him, he needed her; his eyes were begging her for something.

As he had moved her and did things to her she didn't even have names for, she began to feel something other than cloying, disabling fear. His hands were warming her frozen body. When he pushed his manhood into her, the deep, sharp pain had cut through her horror, had slashed through her despair about the Lannister men.

It reminded her she was alive, a young woman who was still breathing, still feeling. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears, her body felt like it was rising into the air and then as he touched her again and again between her legs Sansa could only see in her mind's eye the bud of a white flower as each petal slowly unfolded, 'We are alive,' she thought, 'and we are so beautiful, so very beautiful'…and then she had passed out.

* * *

He looked at her where she lay crumpled on the floor. There was blood on her thighs, mixed with his seed. She looked like a victim, like she had been raped and abused. By a disgusting, filthy animal. Gods, what had he done? He deserved to die for this.

He sat down and cried. He hadn't cried since she had sang that damn hymn to him the night of Blackwater bay and that had been the first goddamn time since his sister had been murdered by Gregor.

The first time in his adult life he had cried and the first time someone willingly stroked his face. And he had raped the delicate, sweet woman who had given him that kindness. He was a fucking, foul monster. Sandor saw the dagger on the floor where she had dropped it. Reaching for it he turned the sharp blade toward the artery in his forearm. One advantage of killing hundreds of people, he thought grimly, I know how to end it fast. And then what? Leave her unprotected? That was worse than raping her. He had to take her home. Sandor sheathed the dagger and moved towards her limp form.

As he approached her, she stirred and sat up. She smiled prettily at him. She is unhinged, he thought.

'Sandor,' she said, 'what did you do to me?'

'I, I…forced you, little bird.' Sandor moved so he was on his knees before her, his head bowed.

'Forced me?' Sansa frowned. 'I was so afraid.' She looked up the bank and shivered.

'I am so sorry, I am a filthy dog.' He didn't know what to say, there were no words that could fix this. He had fucked her and she was so innocent she didn't even know what fucking was. 'I promise I will take you home and then you will be free of me.'

Sansa placed her hand on the top of his head. She was trembling like a starling caught in a net. 'I don't want you to go.'

'No. I won't leave you alone for a moment. You will get home safe.' Gods, she is still terrified, he thought. Disgust rose in him like bile. He felt sickened. How could he have brutalised her so.

'But don't you want me to be your wife, once I am home?'

'I forced you, I will tell them and you will be free to take another husband.'

'But I am not a maiden now… so you cannot leave me.'

Sandor looked at her then, her face was confused and she was biting her lip.

'Don't worry little bird, this will never happen again, I promise you, you will be safe from me girl.' Sandor pleaded with her, his face contorted with grief. 'I won't touch you again.'

Sansa began to cry bitterly and he stood up. The poor girl was absolutely, fucking traumatised, he thought. 'I'll get you some new clothes and some shoes,' he said, looking at her ripped dress and her bare feet. I am an animal, he thought, a dog who deserves to be killed and put in a deep hole.

'Do you want to wash yourself in the stream?' he asked, 'Make yourself ready to ride. We will get to a village soon and then we will find an inn.'

Sansa got up on unsteady feet and Sandor longed to hold her, comfort her but instead he picked up his sword. 'Don't worry, girl,' he growled. 'I'll kill any motherfucker who gets in between you and a hot bath, a decent dinner and some warm clothes.'


	10. Chapter 10

It was a horrible inn, it looked like a place thieves and unclean people might congregate, but they had little choice. It was the first place they had found after hours of travelling. It was only the third night since they had flown from King's landing but it felt like long, weary years had passed.

The inn itself was a two story building, the thatch had seen better days and it all looked slumped and uninviting. There were a few out buildings and a well, covered with another lump of thatch. The sign that hung above the inn's doorway had a white wolf painted on it, but the eyes had been sewn shut. It is an evil omen, Sansa thought, as she pulled the Hound's cloak around her naked shoulders.

Sandor led the two horses into the stable and spoke gruffly with the stable lad. Sansa watched him pay the boy a small gold piece and the boy had dashed around to see to anything they wanted.

'Boy, you keep these horses safe,' the Hound said, 'if that means taking them into the woods for the night, away from thieves, then so be it. I will pay you well in the morning.'

'Yes Ser,' the mouse haired lad had answered. Sansa saw the Hound grimace but he didn't contradict him. The boy's eyes were both blackened with old bruises and he looked malnourished.

'This is your family here?' The Hound gestured toward the inn.

'No, my parents are dead. Grastus gave my uncle a few coins for me.'

'Ok, get on with it then, and remember I'll bloody well run you through if anything happens to my horses.' The lad nodded and hurried to fetch oats, his ragged shirt flapping behind him.

The Hound grabbed Sansa again and they entered the inn slowly, Sandor holding her hand. He had to duck to get through the wooden doorframe and the people in the inn turned to look at them curiously.

'A room for the night.' Sandor put two gold pieces on the bar. 'Wine. Food. A bath for my little whore, before I take her into my bed.'

Sansa kept her face down and leaned into his side. She sneaked a look around the dark, musty room. There were five men, plus the innkeeper and a lumpy, round woman who was carrying a dishcloth and had an apron on. One of the men, a weasel faced individual, approached the bar. He spoke with an oily, sycophantic voice.

'Where did you get your whore from? She looks a tasty piece of flesh,' sniggering, he looked back over his shoulder toward the other men in the room; a few of them laughed and raised their wine cups to the Hound.

Sandor looked at the man like he was piece of shit under his boot, but then he took a long swig of his wine and licked his lips slowly and answered the weasel nosed man in a deliberate, careful tone.

'Got her off a group of men travelling to King's Landing.'

'Bet you paid a pretty penny for her.'

The Hound barked with laughter, 'If you call putting them in the ground a pretty penny, then so I did.'

Sansa watched Weasel back away nervously, but his watery blue eyes still looked at her hungrily. 'Only woman here is Grastus's wench and he don't share.'

The jowly, fat innkeeper banged a mug down on the grimy bar. 'No, I don't and you will be out of here with my boot in your arse if you even look at my wife.'

The wife laughed from somewhere behind the bar, 'Grastus, you know I'll sort out any man who comes near me with my skillet.'

Grastus and the men in the bar all laughed uproariously, this was obviously a standing joke. Weasel grinned in what he thought was a friendly way, but Sansa thought he looked even more odious, then he wheezed at Sandor, 'So what do you say about letting us all take a turn big man, only after you have finished with her of course?'

Sandor took another swig of his wine and looked thoughtful, as if he was considering it. 'Can't see why not,' he growled, 'if you can pay me.'

'Oh, we have a few coins, don't we lads, enough for a suck each.'

Sansa just turned her face away from the room and clung onto the Hound's comforting bulk. This was terrifying, but she had no choice but to trust the Hound. She felt him pull her away from him and push her toward the staircase. 'Get your wench to get the hot water sorted,' he barked at Grastus, 'You, girl,' he said to Sansa, 'get yourself clean and wait in the bed for me.' Then he called for more wine and Sansa walked slowly up the stairs, feeling all the men in the room examine every inch of her body.

The bedroom was as dirty as the rest of the place. The innkeeper's wife bustled in and started to fill a metal bath with hot, steaming water. 'I'll get you the linen from my room,' she said, 'he'll pay more for a clean room, I can tell.' The woman pursed her lips and greed altered her features into a satisfied grin. 'You'll be busy tonight, my girl. You can service the others down in the common room. Let the big man sleep in peace.'

Sansa didn't reply, just sat silently in the corner until the hard faced woman had finished all her tasks. She watched as the woman made the bed with cleaner sheets and added an extra blanket. Then she brought in a tray of cheese and bread and said, 'Your man told me to give this to you. He'll be up in a few moments.'

Sansa nibbled on some of the cheese. It was bland and unappetising but her hunger soon made her stuff the bread into her mouth and swig down the cup of brandy. It was so strong, it made her head spin a little. Then she got undressed and washed her body in the water. The soap was a hard, green lump that wouldn't foam but she washed every inch of her body and her hair. She used a ratty, thin towel to dry herself and got into the bed. Her only thought was to obey exactly what the Hound had told her to do. Before she slept she drank the rest of the alcohol, it eradicated all thought and worry. She passed out, lying like a star fish over the whole bed.

She was unsure how long she slept before she heard him come into the room. Her head was pounding and she wanted water. He was stumbling slightly, trying to be quiet but failing. 'Sansa,' he slurred, 'help me with my armour.'

She got out of the bed, pulling the blanket around herself and unbuckled his breastplate. He lifted it over his head and she helped him lower his chain mail and then he was pulling his clothes off and she watched him in the half light that came from the moon shining through the small window. He was completely naked now and moving towards the cold water in the tub. The silver light highlighted the shape of his broad shoulders, the defined shape of his huge arms. Sansa wanted to look at his manhood but she primly stared at his head until he had sunk his lower body into the water. 'Go back to sleep girl,' he huffed, 'I have no further need of you now.'

Sansa got back into the bed but she watched him. She was wide awake now. He was sat in the tub, his knees drawn up to his chest; slowly he was rubbing the sodden cloth over his body. Sansa was fascinated by lean shape of his back, the hair on his chest and stomach. He got out of the tub, wrapping the thin towel around his waist, and then he reached for a jug to rinse the dirt out of his hair. Once he had finished, he slicked it back off his face and Sansa could see every part of his burnt skin, where his ear had been, the painful ravaged furrows of scar tissue, it looked like molten silver in the starlight. She thought how it made the other half of his face appear even more beautiful and noble.

He pulled on his small clothes and lay down with his head on their pack.

'Sleep here.' Sansa moved across the bed so she was next to the wall. 'There is room; you should get some proper sleep in a real bed.'

'I'm fine here.'

'Please. What if those men come up here?'

The Hound laughed. 'They won't be coming up here little bird.'

Sansa was perplexed but she trusted his judgement of the situation. Self consciously she said, 'But are they not …expecting to lie with me?'

'I said they won't be coming up here. Now go to sleep.'

Sansa sighed deeply. She rolled onto her side, then onto her back. She kicked off the covers and then made a lot of fuss rearranging them. 'I'm so cold,' she said. 'Can't you hold me like you did in the cave? Please Sandor.'

* * *

The Hound lay back down. Gods help me, he thought, get in the bed with her? You have to be joking. But if she was cold, well he couldn't let her lie there and shiver, could he? He let his mind flicker over the events of the last few hours. He had made Sansa go upstairs first so he could drink some wine and try and find out some news from the ignorant pigs in the bar. The bar wench had served him some mediocre stew, full of buggering vegetables and hardly any meat. He had eaten it though.

He brought them all plenty of wine and ale, Grastus and his wife sitting with them as well, the wench telling ribald jokes about all the men enjoying Sansa later. It made the Hound furious but he let them fall about laughing, gleaning information out of them as they foolishly gossiped. The Lannister soldiers had passed through and a few of them had stopped to drink and impart some useful facts. Robb Stark and his army were heading for the Twins for a marriage, and Sansa's mother was with him. Joffrey was due to marry the Tyrell bitch in the next few days.

Weasel was watching him drink, his watery eyes fixed on the Hound's hood. 'Hot in here,' he said, 'want me to hang your cloak for you?'

Sandor laughed; a grim, joyless sound. 'As if I would let you touch my clothes, or my whore for that matter, you little bastard.'

Weasel jumped from his stool, 'What do you mean? We had an agreement.' His indignation caused him to knock into one of the other men who yelped in annoyance. They all turned to look closely at Weasel as he got up and went towards the Hound.

'I know who you are,' said Weasel, 'I do, knew it as soon as you came in.' He pushed at Sandor's hood. 'I said to myself, that's the fucking Hound, that is.'

The other men, bemused and drunk began to stand up. Grastus's wife gasped, 'Well that means we can get the bounty on him, and madam upstairs, is the little Stark bitch. Think of the rewards, husband.' She was pushing at Grastus, trying to get him to act.

Grastus said uncertainly, 'You, you are, you're the Hound?'

'Aye,' said Sandor, 'that I am.' He stood up and drew his dagger; then he pulled Weasel by his collar and slid the sharp blade under his rib cage in one smooth, practised movement. Weasel gargled in disbelief and slumped to the floor. The other men gasped and one began to reach around for a weapon.

Sandor pushed his cloak back and pulled another dagger out so he had one in each hand. He grinned at them all. 'I was always going to kill you. Think you could touch my little bird, did you?' He stabbed the one man in the throat and smashed the innkeeper's wife in the head with his elbow. She fell off her chair with a whimpering noise. Grastus was screaming like a pig and another, tall, thin man ran at Sandor holding a sword. It took two easy swipes to cut both their throats and their blood gushed across the room.

The three remaining men took up positions around him, two were holding blades; the other gripped a stool in his hand. Sandor turned slowly, judging which idiot would make the first move. It didn't take long, despite being a huge man he was fast enough to avoid their amateur attempts to hit him. He stabbed one in the eye, another he disembowelled, the ropes of intestine tumbled to the floor with a wet, slippery sound. The last man he smashed to the floor and stamped on him until the prick didn't move again. When it was over, the only sound was the woman, moaning on the floor by the bar. She was conscious, watching him with a terrified expression. The room stank of blood and the boards were covered in it. Sandor sheathed his blades and bent down to look the woman in the eye. She was babbling, 'Thank you for your mercy Ser, thank you…'

'No mercy, you filthy wench,' said the Hound, 'I just don't want to get a hole in your buggering dress.' Then he put his big hand around her fat neck and snapped it.

He barred the door and drank another skin of wine in the company of the dead and then he had gone upstairs to Sansa. After washing himself and lying on the floor he had wondered what she would think about him killing them all. He knew the bath water would be pink when Sansa looked at it in the daylight and his armour was splattered with blood but he hoped he could usher her out of there without seeing too much horror. He could make her wear a hood until they were far away. At least he had the wench's clothes for Sansa now, he wondered if the shoes would fit her pretty little feet.

And now she was saying she was cold, she couldn't sleep without him warming her up, her lilting voice was calling from the bed. These noble bloods can't do anything on their bloody own, he thought. Getting up he got into bed with her and she immediately snuggled into his body. He sighed, the poor little bird was very cold and he rubbed her arms and held her tight until she relaxed and drifted into sleep. He closed his eyes, but it took a while for sleep to claim him. His blood was up from killing and now he had to feel her chest rise and fall against his own, which made him long for her all over again. Resist, he thought, resist the temptation, you old dog.


	11. Chapter 11

'Two or maybe three weeks, depends if we make good time or not.' He peered up at the lacklustre sun that was blinking through the gathering clouds. 'If it rains the whole fucking way, then we are buggered.'

Sansa flinched as he cursed but she didn't reprimand him. The life they were living was deserving of such language. The Hound was stamping around, preparing for their journey. He had carried her from the inn that morning whilst she was still asleep and dumped her in the stable with the stable boy who had looked very surprised to see a confused, half asleep young woman in the straw. The Hound had stroked her head, or at least it had felt like a caress to Sansa but it had happened so fast she was unsure if he had just brushed against her by accident. 'Stay here, I won't be long.' Then he had gone back in and come out with armfuls of useful things. Clothes, dried foods and water bags.

Sansa had started to sort things into the saddle bags, smiling to herself when she found some shoes, when Sandor had grabbed the stable boy by the shoulder, firmly but not aggressively, and given him a small bag of coins and a thick coat. 'Here, this is for you, boy, nothing in there for you now.' He inclined his head toward the inn; 'I advise you to take one of the horses and make for the coast. I'd get passage on a ship and start a new life.'

The stable boy had stood there uncertainly; then he had said bravely, 'King Joffrey has offered a massive reward for you, so be careful Ser Hound.'

Sandor nodded, 'Thank you boy, but I can take of myself. Now promise me you won't bother saying farewell to the innkeeper, he'll just take your gold.'

'No, I'll go now, as you say.' The boy had saddled up a sturdy grey horse and waved at them both as he cantered toward the road. 'Thank you,' his little voice shouted as he rose away.

'So… it's going to take weeks then.' Sansa was holding carrots out on her palm for the mare to eat. Stranger was snickering jealously from where he was tethered in the stable. 'Even if we got to the Twins, the wedding will be over by then and Robb will have left.'

'He won't have got far, not with a massive great army at his heels.' Sandor touched her hand, 'You want to go to them, don't you?'

Sansa pouted slightly, 'Not if we are just going to get killed on the way there. Everyone is looking for us. We stand out so much. Even the boy knew you.'

'What do you suggest we do then? We can't stay here, we can't go anywhere with my monstrous face, you tell me, girl, where do we go?'

'Your face is not monstrous! And don't shout at me. Why are you always so angry with me?'

'I'm angry because you are so foolish. What do you know about monsters? Hells, you don't even realise when you are with one.' Sandor turned way from her, fuming and annoyed, he began to roughly load the packs on to Stranger. 'Get ready, we shall leave now. It's not safe here.'

'Where shall we go?' Sansa hurried to put the over large shoes on and fix some packs to her horse. She felt useless, not being able to suggest where they went.

'Back into the forest, we'll travel North; but slowly. We'll cross Robb's path sooner or later.'

Going back into the forest sounded grim but the alternative was the King's Road, which was too dangerous. Sansa wanted to avoid any situation where her husband might get recognised again. Thank goodness no one at the inn had realised who he was.

* * *

So, here they were again, Sandor thought, cold and pissed off. Sat around a poxy little fire that refused to burn properly so it gave off no heat, their cloaks huddled around them as a sharp frost was in the air. The sky was over clear but there was no moon, it made everything feel even more hopeless. Sandor sighed deeply and got out one of the many wine skins he had loaded into his pack. 'Drink, girl?'

'No, I don't think I should. I had such a headache this morning.'

'It will warm you up, little bird.'

Sansa raised one eyebrow and bit her bottom lip. She looked like she was making a really serious decision. It made Sandor laugh, a loud bark, which caused Sansa to flinch back in surprise.

'What is it?' She asked a little haughtily, 'Why do you laugh at me?'

'Oh Sansa Stark,' said the Hound, 'you do make me chuckle. You look so refined and snooty, even sat there in your ugly dress and floppy shoes, as you are thinking how to politely refuse my offer of wine. Just drink the damn wine girl; it's going to get colder yet.'

'I'm not Sansa Stark,' she said crossly, taking the wine skin from his outstretched hand, 'I am Sansa Clegane or have you forgotten that we are man and wife?'

'Forgotten? How could I forget why we are in this mess?'

The wine skin hit him on his chest. He watched Sansa wrap the cloak around her body and huddle on the floor with her back to him. Fuck it, he thought, it's better than having to keep her warm and smell her beautiful skin all night; that would lead to thoughts of having her again and I don't deserve to even look at her. Best if she stays over there.

* * *

He woke up to feel her pulling at his cloak. Her fingers were like ice as they pawed at his face. 'I really am sorry,' she whispered, 'I'm sorry if you hate being married to me and …you don't desire to have me near you but please can you hold me, I am so frozen. I really can't sleep on my own.'

'Come here,' he said gruffly, pulling her underneath his heavy cloak. 'Sansa, you have nothing to say sorry for, I am the one who is sorry.'

'For having to marry me and getting into this mess,' she sobbed.

'No, little bird, I'm not sorry for marrying you,' he pushed her hair away from her hot, tear-stained face, 'I'm… sorry I forced you by the river.'

'What do you mean, forced me to do what?'

Shamefully he said, 'I raped you, I cut your dress and forced myself inside you.'

'No,' Sansa shook her head, 'No that's not how it happened. You made me your wife, because we might die. You told me you loved me, you kissed me and you touched me…' Sansa lifted his hand from her shoulder and placed it between her legs, 'you touched me…here.'

'You liked it?' He pushed her down in amazement, very gently and leaned above her, his weight on his arms so their faces were nearly touching and their pelvis bones brushed together.

'Yes.' She reached up and kissed him, it was a very polite kiss but it fired his heart, heat rose from his groin to his face, was this really happening or was he still asleep? He bent his head and kissed her firmly, her mouth opened and she tasted so lovely, her tongue slowly touched his tongue, exploring him and he licked and kissed her plump bottom lip. Moving his mouth to her cheek bones, her eyebrows, he gently kissed each part of her perfect face. Her eyes were closed and he could feel she was smiling under his mouth. 'I'm so warm now,' she whispered, 'I feel so safe with you.'

Sansa shifted her legs under his weight. Sandor reached down and pulled up her skirt. 'I want to undress you but you will freeze,' he said, 'I wish I could look at you, you are so beautiful, but right now I want to feel your legs wrapped around me.'

'Show me,' she said.

He got her skirts hitched up so her legs were free and he pushed his breeches off. Their naked legs were burning hot and they pressed them together, her slim ones rubbing against his rough calves and hard thighs. He moved her so he was lying on her and she automatically wrapped her legs around his waist. He groaned as he felt her grip him, his cock was rubbing against her sweet, sweet cunt but he made sure not to enter her, not until she asked him to. Holding her close, he deepened their kisses. It felt like falling into a clear pool, he was drowning in her. 'Do you like it?' he whispered, 'Are you frightened?'

'No,' she laughed, 'no, I am not frightened. Yes, I like it. I like you.' She reached under his shirt and stroked his huge back. She kissed his mouth and chin, boldly kissed his scars and caressed his backside, feather light strokes as if she was afraid of doing it wrong. It felt more exciting than his past times with the most experienced whores. He liked her clumsiness and her shy fingers. His cock was so hard, pressed between them.

'Sandor,' she said in a most serious tone of voice, 'should I turn around now so you can do that same thing again, that stroking my private place thing?'

He wanted to laugh, but he answered her just as seriously, 'No, my little bird, you don't need to turn around for that.' He moved his weight off her so that he was lying next to her and she was still flat on her back then he kissed her as he carefully caressed her. He stroked her neck, her shoulders, across her breasts. 'When we are somewhere safe and warm I will kiss every part of you,' he groaned into her neck, 'I will kiss you all night.' Then his fingers found the hem of her dress and slipped underneath, rubbing the flat stomach and then down to her pelvis. As he found her bush he paused, just letting the weight of his hand sit there. All the time he kissed her and licked her and whispered to her; telling her she was beautiful and how much he wanted her.

'You really do?' She asked.

'Yes, little bird, give me your hand,' and he took her palm and pressed it on to his cock. 'Feel this, feel how hard it is, that's how much I want you.'

She gasped as she touched his velvet soft skin; Sansa had never imagined a part of the Hound could be so hot and silken. Curiously she gripped him, he felt enormous in her fingers, she remembered how it had felt inside her she squirmed, her thighs felt heavy and she ached deep inside. She loved his kisses; when he kissed her neck she felt a responding ache in her lower back, it was delicious. His eyes were so intense, so dark and emotional; he was so solid she felt like she was made of foam, a wave hitting his rock.

He was going to do the stroking thing again; his hand was touching her, moving her thighs apart. She quivered with desire and excitement. Sansa was so relieved he still wanted her; she had been sure he despised her after he hadn't touched her there or tried to lie with her as a husband since the river. I didn't disappoint him after all, she thought, as his fingers began to stroke her womanhood.

He was sliding his fingers between her folds, she felt embarrassment but it felt so good she just closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling. He seemed to enjoy doing it though, so it couldn't be a really forbidden or filthy thing, it felt too right, like his fingers were made to slide in and out of her, his thumb rubbing that special place he had shown her. Sansa's legs were tense and her stomach was ridged with anticipation and he rubbed back and forth, swirling all her pleasure into such a small place. 'Your cunt is so sweet, my little Sansa,' he huffed into her skin, 'I do want to be your husband.' Then he moved his head away from her face and she whimpered as the cold air hit her and she wanted him to keep kissing her, he was so big and powerful, he made her feel so small and womanly, and then she felt him lift up her hips and place his face between her legs.

Oh my, she thought, oh my Gods, his tongue was licking her between her legs, it was so determined and precise and then he latched onto that place and sucked, quite firmly. Sucking like he couldn't get enough of her, like he really wanted to bury his face right in her female place and never let go of her. It was too much, it was too incredible, it felt like all the muscles in her body were rushing towards something and then it happened again, that beautiful feeling, the rush and then the sweetness. Everything was wet and she cried because she was so happy and overwhelmed.

'Little bird?' His manhood was pushing against her; his lips were in her hair kissing her head. He felt big against her but she felt so silken and wet that she was unafraid.

'Yes.' She kissed his ruined cheek and wrapped her legs around him again. He pushed in very slowly; it was tight despite her climax and his tongue. He moaned. She couldn't help gasping, but it was the feeling of him inside her, it was so satisfying. Oh, he was saying, oh, oh, too beautiful, you are too beautiful and then he pushed harder and harder and she held onto him with her arms and legs and he had groaned, a growl like a bear and then he had collapsed onto her. The weight of him was hot and comforting. She didn't want him to ever move, but he did, he rolled over and put her on top of him so he could hold her in his arms.


	12. Chapter 12

The course they took was meandering, through the Riverlands, always moving at night, sticking to isolated copses and wilder landscapes. In the day time they sheltered and hid themselves from view. Sansa found riding for long hours extremely painful, and sleeping in hedges was cold and uncomfortable but she didn't complain; she knew this was the safest way to head North. The Hound was adept at finding his way through what Sansa thought was indistinguishable fields and woodlands. He would gruffly explain some landmark, as if she was going to remember it for next time. Next time? She thought bitterly, if we survive this I am never leaving Winterfell and I am never riding a horse again.

Sansa had focused on the thought of her home, she felt like it was the only place she could heal the damage she had created. Somehow, if they made it back there things would be alright again. She would be reconciled with her mother and she could work hard to help the family in whatever way she could. She could help to look after Riccon, or run the household for her mother. Sansa enjoyed the thought of being useful. She was sure Arya would head to Winterfell and that they would meet there.

Sansa considered how Arya had ranted about the Hound to her but that was in the past now. Sansa would explain how they had misjudged him. He was her husband and nothing could change that. They would be pleased with Sandor, he had saved her. Not for a moment did Sansa consider that people may harbour grudges or hatred toward the Hound, which no amount of maiden rescuing would alter. As Sandor led her mare through the darkness and she dozed with her eyes shut, Sansa would dream about the future they might have together, of children and long dark, winter nights filled with lovemaking and sleeping in warm furs.

In the day time, they were both so exhausted they would wrap in their cloaks and fall into deep, uncomfortable sleep. Disjointed dreams and insistent nightmares twisted them both into nervous creatures, although the Hound did not shriek or gasp like Sansa. Jumping at broken sticks and the sound of the wind arching through the trees; they were both worn out and sometimes snapped at one another in fear and apprehension, but they were quick to touch a hand to a cheek, or smile to bolster the other's spirits. The Hound was always leading the way, keeping her safe, moving them away from the Lannisters.

Sansa had imagined that after their lovemaking on that frozen night they would continue their marital relations, but the Hound had explained that he wanted to wait until they were safe. He said she didn't deserve to be tupped like a ewe in a bush and he wanted to have her in a bed next time. Sansa disagreed, now she had experienced the Hound's attentions it was all she could think about, it was the first time she had felt cared for since her father had been murdered, the first time she had felt happiness since she found out about Joffrey's true character.

She didn't think anyone had ever loved her the way Sandor loved her, not even her family were that interested in her really, but Sandor wanted to keep her safe and worship her body, he was interested in her every thought but wasn't afraid to tell her when she was a fool. In some ways he reminded her of Arya, with his bravery and straight-talking manner.

Sansa blushed when she thought about her infatuation with Ser Loras. He looked like a silly flower now, next to the immovable strength of the Hound. Smooth skin, gilded armour and curls styled into ringlets were as false as the silly Knight stories she used to simper over; now Sansa wanted to stare at the Hound's strong forearms and trace the scars there, hear his short, fierce opinions on things that cut through the artifice she had been used to.

So she wanted to make love, to show him how much she admired him but she could sense Sandor's deep anxiety about lingering in the South so she submitted to his desire to cover as many miles as possible each night and spend the day time trying to recoup their energy.

When they couldn't fall asleep after their meagre meal, Sansa would chatter softly to him about stories she had read or songs she knew. He liked her singing to him, when she stopped he would say, sing another girl. He would stroke her back with his rough fingers and she would drift into a cat like state of sensual half-sleep. Sometimes he would tell her things about battles that had been fought nearby or which Lord's land they were creeping through. It all sounded terrifying. Each family conquering and destroying their enemies, those who had recently been their allies until they betrayed each other; it just increased her longing for the cool, crisp Stark lands.

They kissed a lot until she felt like she was an expert at kissing. Soft kisses, hard kisses, kisses that made her swoon. She would nuzzle close to him once they were wrapped in their cloaks and she would kiss him until he groaned and he would thoroughly kiss her back. Sansa loved to feel his manhood pressing against her and she would stroke him through his breeches, until he sighed at her, 'Not here, little bird.' Sansa would pout and huff; he would hush her and tell her to sleep.

'We are in so much danger, how can your mind be thinking about that?' His voice was a low growl, but she had grown to understand his manner might be gruff but his feelings for her were tender.

'I don't know why my mind thinks thus, but it does.' Sansa stroked his stomach and started to move lower, pressing against his hardness. 'You are thinking about it too.'

'That I am, little bird, how can I not think of being inside you, with you wriggling around next to me? But I know better than to start fucking you in this rotten hedge. I wouldn't hear a whole regiment of soldiers, even if they were stood behind me with a blade at my neck. I would only be listening to your little moans.'

Sansa leaned away from his mouth; even though she wanted to press her lips against his again, instead she said, 'Tell me about your family then.'

'Well that's enough to make me soft,' he growled, but he smiled his crooked smile at her as he said it and he lay down next to her, under the shelter of the prickly hawthrone trees. 'What could I tell you that would be fit for your delicate ears? It is all terrible and evil, just like me.'

'Sandor!'

'I am evil, the things I have done. Have you so easily forgotten that I was Joffrey's dog?'

'You are my dog now,' she teased.

'Then you are my sweet little bitch.' That reminded Sandor vividly of the first time they had fucked and he felt a blinding rush of lust which made him shiver. He pulled her to her feet, 'We are not sleeping, little bird, we are chattering. The sun is past its best so let's ride on.'


	13. Chapter 13

The arrows hit the mare in the neck; thunk, thunk, two feathered flights stuck out of the brown hair only inches from Sansa's hand. The mare squealed in agony and stumbled and sank to her forelegs, pitching Sansa forward into the mud. Sansa screamed, she had been in a doze in the dawn light, relying on Sandor to lead her horse so she could sleep in the saddle.

Squirming in the dirt, trying to get her bearings she looked frantically around but could not see Stranger or the Hound. Fear, like she hadn't felt in weeks overcame her and she began to panic.

'You're coming with us missy, someone wants a word with you.' A cruel voice spoke from above her, dark shapes loomed in from all sides. Men laughed. The mare was still squealing in her death agonies. Someone grabbed Sansa roughly and slung her across their shoulders; his armour was sharp and cut her across the cheek. She felt her blood gush out and drip onto the metal. 'My husband will kill you,' Sansa shouted, 'he will kill all of you.'

'No, he won't, he's dead in a ditch over there. Now shut your blasted hole or I'll shut it for you.'

Sansa felt her heart split into fragments like a shattered mirror. The pain was so intense, she blacked out.


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa watched as the old, crippled man came in to give her some water and change her bucket. He took slow, unsteady movements because he had a wooden leg and on the same side of the body, he was missing his arm. It gave him a lopsided look but it was exaggerated by the fact his left eye and ear were also cut off. Who had done this to him? Sansa was too terrified to ask him anything. His remaining eye glared at her and he slammed her water down so most of it spilt on to the cobbled floor.

She was in a dungeon, with no natural light except for a small crack that filtered in where there was a grill fitted into the wall above her head. She had spent hours craning her neck, trying to see something, anything. She had counted the times it got dark; nine nights had passed since she had woken up. They had beaten her when they had brought her in there; her ribs and thighs were still dark with bruises. Her face was crusted with a large scab across her cheek where she had cut it on the kidnapper's shoulder.

They hadn't said anything that explained where she was or why she wasn't being taken anywhere else. She had screamed and shouted. She had wept. Every time she thought about Sandor, she felt overcome with a grief that manifested itself as physical pain, sharpness in her heart and her chest contracted and she struggled to breathe. She would slump into a heap for hours at a time.

They pushed food in through a space in the heavy, iron clad door, it arrived every so often and the man with the water came each day. At least that is what Sansa thought was happening, she was so disturbed and hurt she lapsed into moments of absence when she was unsure if it had been minutes or days that had gone by.

It was a cold, grey morning, the thin light had chased away the utter darkness of the night. Sansa was huddled, leaning against the freezing rock wall, looking up at the rectangle of sky above her. Then the door had slowly creaked open and three men came in. Sansa didn't react; she didn't do anything apart from look slowly at them all and then look back up at the sky.

Two of the men stood either side of the door. They were dressed in armour and held heavy, metal clubs. They stared straight ahead and didn't glance toward Sansa. The other man took up position against the far wall, leaning slightly against it as if he were at a feast and he was resting between dances. He was smooth skinned, not a handsome man but not entirely plain either. His skin was white and his eyes bulged out, they were a very pale shade of ice blue and they shone like two small lamps in the darkness of the dungeon.

The door swung open again and some more men shuffled in bringing chairs, a table and laid it with a cloth and silverware. Then they lit candles and placed them around the room. One of them placed a pail of hot water on the floor and lifted Sansa and stripped her dirty linen from her and began to scrub off the dirt. She stood shivering, her naked white body looked thin and neglected. None of the guards looked at her, even the one scrubbing her gazed at the wall. He wasn't rough, but very efficient. When he was finished another dressed her in warm clothes, befitting a lady. All the time, the pale man sat at the table playing idly with the cutlery and tapping his white fingers onto the wood.

At last the tasks were finished and the men slunk out of the room as silently as they had entered. Even the two guards with their evil clubs saluted the ice eyed man and left the dungeon. Sansa was shivering with shock and confusion. Despite her warm clothes and clean skin she felt dirty; infected with the clammy walls and bone chilling cold that emanated from the floor. The man stood up and held out Sansa's chair for her to sit down. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't place his face at all. She tried to sit down but she stumbled and he caught her. He smelt like metal and something sickly sweet. He helped her to her chair and placed an embroidered napkin onto her lap. Sansa almost laughed but there was something very chilling about his soft, polite voice.

'May I serve you some meat, Lady Sansa?'

'That would please me greatly, Ser.'

He placed some tender pieces of roasted chicken onto her place and some bread. Then he passed her a plate of fruits for her to select some herself. He put two or three plums onto his own plate and then watched her eat. She tried not to eat too fast, despite it tasting so good. All she had been given for the last ten days was grey slop that tasted rank and seemed polluted with dirt.

'I only arrived at Harrenhal this morning, Sansa. You must accept my sincere apologies for how you have been treated.' He poured a cup of golden wine for her. Sansa picked it up and sipped it politely but she was afraid of losing her wits.

'Harrenhal. That is where I am?'

The man looked at her coldly for many minutes then he said, 'I do not like to repeat myself, call it a small fault of my personality, but to confirm what I said, yes you are being held by my forces at Harrenhal castle. Sadly they have been rather hard on you, seeing you as a traitor against the Lannisters.'

Sansa almost repeated him incredulously but instead she daintily speared a portion of chicken with a trembling hand and said, 'Thank you for this delicious meal Ser, I greatly appreciate it.'

He inclined his head politely and then said, 'Yes, you must be hungry, please feel free to eat what you like.' He put another piece of bread onto her plate. 'Joffrey is dead. He died at his wedding feast. Murdered by the Imp.'

Sansa nearly choked on her bread. Joffrrey dead…poisoned. It was everything she had wished for, her enemy was dead, she was free of him. Sansa looked into the cool blue eyes of the man opposite her, who was watching her with a discomfiting expression on his pasty face as if he was waiting for her to respond.

'I am surprised; Tyrion seemed like a kind person…at least he was kind to me.'

The man smiled slightly, 'People are not always what they seem.' He sat back in his chair and folded his fingers together on his lap. 'So, what are we to do with you? Your father would have expected me to deliver you safely back to Winterfell, yet Winterfell is a ruin.'

'My father, do you…did you know him?'

He laughed, but it was not a friendly sound. 'Do you not recognise me Sansa? I have been at Winterfell, spent time in your keep, eaten bread and salt at your family's table.'

Sansa could not think. She sat dumb and frightened before him.

He sighed, 'I suppose you were just a child, it is no real insult to my person that you have forgotten me.'

Sansa could tell that he thought it was a deep insult. 'Forgive me Ser, I have been through so much that I can hardly recall my father's face let alone another noble Knight like yourself.'

'I understand Lady Sansa, you have been through a great torment, travelling with that ugly scarred beast. The Hound is a notoriously evil fellow. Did he hurt you? Are you still a maiden?'

Sansa did not know what to say, what was the right answer? 'I find I cannot recall anything, there is only blackness when I try to remember what happened before I woke up in this dungeon.'

'Well, he is dealt with at least. My men told me how he died in a ditch, most fitting for a dog. You can rest easy, Lady Sansa, he will never trouble you again.'

'Thank you,' she whispered, 'Thank you Lord…?'

'Bolton. Our seat is the Dreadfort, as you should know without me telling you. I am Roose Bolton. Perhaps you recall who I am now? I am the Warden of the North. Lord Tywin honoured me with this title only a few days ago in King's Landing.'

Sansa tried to make sense of this news, but all she could think about was Sandor lying in a ditch. Oh how she wanted him to be here, to protect her from this man and to hold her in his strong arms, but she was on her own.

'Harrenhal is near to my mother's family, Ser. May I go to them?'

'Your mother's family? No, I think not. I don't think you can go anywhere Sansa.'

'Please,' she begged. 'Do you know if my mother is at Riverrun? My uncle Edmure would be happy to receive me and take me in.'

Roose Bolton smiled again. 'Your mother is dead, and so is your brother Robb. I killed him myself.' He paused to look for her re-action but Sansa controlled every part of herself, she would not betray anything to this murderer. 'As for your uncle he is a prisoner, for now, a prisoner of the Frey's and there he will remain until Riverrun comes under the Frey's control.'

He filled her glass again. 'So you see Sansa, you may not go to Riverrun.'

'Will you send me back to King's Landing?'

'Alas, no, it is of little benefit to me to give you to Tywin Lannister. You are dangerous to the Bolton's. You could ruin everything I have planned.'

Sansa knew she was doomed. He meant to kill her, perhaps as soon as they had finished this dinner. Why was he toying with her? Because this is his pleasure, Sandor's voice spoke loudly in her mind, he wants to see your pain, don't let him.

'How could I be of any danger to you?'

'Because I have arranged to marry my bastard to your sister Arya, their children will be the heirs to Winterfell and will consolidate my power in the North. You are presumed dead, if you are alive my Ramsay is marrying a Stark that will gain him nothing.'

Sansa thought of Arya, how she would hate being married. Hopefully she would kill this Ramsay Bolton. 'But now you find I am alive, why am I not the one to marry your son. I am the heir.' As she said it, she despaired, but she was determined to be as brave as the Hound and survive if she could.

'That is too complicated. I do not like complications. Things have been arranged. Arya travels North as we speak, and although you are most delightful company Lady Sansa, I must beg your leave now to attend to other matters.' He stood up and bowed.

Sansa tried to rise gracefully but she was still weak. 'So, my Lord, what will you do with me?'

'For now you will be housed in better chambers, these are unbefitting to a Lady, and you shall be comfortable whilst I think on the matter. I too, shall head for the Dreadfort within a day or two. Your fate will be decided before I leave.'


	15. Chapter 15

_The dream was always the same. The toy soldier was in his hands and he was marveling at it, thinking how wonderful it was when the huge shadow would pass over him. The shadow had sharp edges; long claws would extend out of it across the floor towards him and seize him. Then he would feel himself being dragged toward the brazier. He would scream and attempt to stop the relentless movement towards the flames but it would always happen, over and over again. The pain was so intense, the dream changed form: Sandor was watching the scene now. He was screaming at the little boy holding the toy, run away, run away but the small child couldn't hear him and the menacing shadow was slinking towards his little, unblemished face. Sandor watched the boy being dragged towards the flaming coals when a slim white shape stood in-between the boy and the fire. The shadow enveloped her, but she stood fast; her body burned as she protected him. No, Sandor screamed, no…_

The huge man tossed and turned in the low bed of straw he was lying on, trying to avoid his tortured dreams. His fevered face dripped with sweat and his massive torso was wrapped in bloody bandages. The short woman who was tending to him began to strip them off and replace them with new ones she had ripped from a pile of old rags by her feet. She was old, her face lined with wrinkles. Her hair was plaited around her crown. The big man was screaming now and she forced milk of the poppy between his bloody, bruised lips.

Pearl had found him, in the tumbled down barn connected to her ramshackle cottage. Her goats had been milling around him. He has half conscious; five arrows were protruding from his thighs and torso. 'Had to crawl here,' he gargled, 'they would have taken my head as a trophy' He tried to pull himself up. 'Hide me,' he begged, 'hide me, Wench.' His eyes were huge; round and dark like the eyes of a puppy she had tried to keep when she was a child. Her father had drowned it for being a cripple. That was a memory she had long forgotten, it was fifty years ago, until she looked into this huge, bloody, scarred man's face. His eyes beseeched her with his final ounce of willpower and then he collapsed.

If he had crawled here, then the men who had done this to him would be nearby. They were likely to be on horseback so they would be passing through the woods along the only bridle track. Not many people lived deep in the woods like her, only a few cottages here and there. If they were seeking him they would find him easily. But first they had to find this cottage, it was protected by the stream that circled it on three sides and thick pine trees grew on the east.

She was hermit like; she avoided other people since her son had gone off to war, many years ago. No one knew of her, no one could say this cottage was here. This big soldier was soaked; he must have been in the stream and crawled along it to reach this place. Pearl decided immediately that she had to help him, whoever he was. He needed her to protect him and heal him. She had hidden him in the straw whilst she gathered all she needed to fix his body. Although it would take the blessing of many Gods to heal the amount of wounds he had, by the law of nature he ought to be dead, not crawling through the woods. Perhaps he will live to fight another day, she thought, as she pressed a hot iron against the gaping holes in his legs to cauterise them, if it is his destiny, he will live.


	16. Chapter 16

The room was in a ruined tower, so high the cloud wisps seemed to hang outside and ravens circled and cawed around the window. Sansa leaned on the stone windowsill and gazed out across the landscape. Her long, red hair whirled around, whipped by the breeze. A storm was gathering in the North, thick banks of cloud covered the horizon.

The castle was larger than anything Sansa could have imagined. She had walked up thousands of steps, past hundreds of rooms to get to this tower. Studying it from the window she could see the huge walls stretching out of view and she knew she was a tiny bird, trapped in a giant stone cage. But not a pretty little dove, not a lovebird trained to cheep prettily Now Sansa felt like she was a fierce bird with talons, something with a sharp stabbing beak. Sansa was so angry and she wanted revenge. Her family were all murdered, except for Arya who was destined for a life worse than death. Sansa wanted to punish all the people who had wronged the Starks. All of them needed to die.

Before she may have wept, or lamented her bad luck at being held prisoner. In King's Landing she had felt weak and feeble, unable to do anything to change her fate. That was until the Hound had taught her the facts of life; that there were no true knights, just killers. Some were better at killing; they were the ones who lived. The Hound had understood how the world worked, he had taught Sansa you had to kill or be killed. He had taught her that she was precious, that she was worth something to him, worth risking his life for hers. Now, he was dead, her happiness was dead and Sansa daydreamed about killing Roose Bolton, in many different ways.

She jerked her head back into the room and turned her back on the window. It was all very well imagining him dead, the reality was she had nothing at her disposal to aid her in her plans. Sansa looked at her small, soft skinned hands. They had never done any manual work in her life. She had filled her time with learning to act like a lady.

How to be ladylike; courteous and charming, how to behave around different classes of people and memorise all kinds of etiquette that was useful for nothing. As for learning a skill that would have aided her now, something like how to use a dagger or what could be used to poison a person, there had been no lessons like that. There was nothing she was skilled at apart from needlework and singing.

Sansa paced around the circular room, her skirts dragged behind her. Roose Bolton had given her a vile dress to wear; it was thick, yellowing velvet and it smelt like mould. He probably got it off a corpse, she thought bitterly. Weeks, that was how long she had been in this room. Lord Bolton had gone, she guessed, although she had no idea what was happening. Rough men brought her food and drink, all good quality things, no slop or insults; the men left her completely alone. No one spoke to her. She was trapped in a ridiculous tower, like a stupid princess. The hound would have laughed at her. He would have rescued me by now, she thought, and that means he is definitely dead. She lay flat on her bed and closed her eyes. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks and she jumped as the door began to open.

Something was different. A boy had brought her meal for her; he slipped in silently and placed her food on the table. Then he tapped her on the arm and put his finger to his lip and pointed towards the door. Sansa slowly nodded to show she understood. Was this a trick of some kind? He smiled at her and Sansa nervously smiled back. He was about eleven years old and he had a shaved head, like many of the Bolton guardsmen. It gave him a curiously hardened look, like a small adult rather than a child. However, his green eyes were kind and he was drawing her towards the window. He leant his head out into the wind and she followed his lead. He leant towards her ear and said,

'Do you remember me, Lady?'

'I don't think so.' Sansa was shocked that there was a child in the room, she felt like Roose Bolton had arranged this to hurt her in some way. Do I know him, she wondered staring at his features, but he looked like a plain boy, no-one she could place. She was beginning to doubt her sanity was still intact.

The boy grinned, 'I can't talk now: they are waiting for me to feed the other prisoners. I will be back. When it gets dark.'

'No,' said Sansa 'please don't go, tell me who you are? I am sick of mysteries.'

'I can't explain now,' he moved from the window and picked up her plate after pushing the bread and cheese off it, 'Open the door now, I'm done with this one.' His voice rang loudly in the room and the door creaked open and with a flick of grey doublet he was gone.

Sansa paced the room, she felt full of nervous energy. She couldn't eat; it tasted like ash and was impossible to chew. She couldn't do anything but walk around, clenching her fists and wondering what was happening outside of this room. Who was that boy? Was he teasing her, adding to her turmoil?

She watched the sun as it slowly plotted its course across the sky from east to west. Once it had set and shadows filled the land, she sat in darkness, waiting. There was a scratch at the door and it opened very slowly. He slipped in and came to kneel by her feet.

'Who are you?'

'My name is Grendle, I used to be a stable boy.'

'A stable boy?'

'Yes, until the Hound saved me, remember Lady, you came to my home and he killed the bastards who were beating me?'

'Killed them?'

'He gave me gold and told me to go to the sea…the sea! As if I was going anywhere but with him. Did you see what he did to Grastus? I did, I looked in the windows before you even got up that morning. It was everything I had been praying to the Old Gods for. So, yes I have been following you. Tracking is easy for me. My Grandmother was a wildling.'

'A wildling?' Sansa put her hand to her forehead and rubbed it. Then she reached out and touched the boy's face. He was real. The stable boy had been a skinny, mousy little thing. Inanely, Sansa muttered, 'You were smaller.'

The boy laughed softly, 'Gold can buy a lot of food. Never got fed before you came.'

'But why follow us?'

'I don't know…I can't explain it. I guess I just didn't want to be on my own.' Sansa understood that feeling; she placed her hand on top of his. It felt so good to be talking to someone. Then she remembered what she had been doing with Sandor. Had this boy been watching them all the time? Sansa felt a deep blush cover her face.

'But we never saw you or heard you. Sandor would have known if you were nearby.'

'I wasn't there all the time, I often drifted into villages to buy food and sleep in a bed. I guessed you were heading North, I just picked up your trail each time. The war horse left a clear set of tracks.'

Sansa said, 'I need to get away from here. Can you help me?'

'Yes, but don't you want to know about the Hound?'

'Sandor is dead,' she couldn't stop a sob from blurting out; 'The men who caught me killed him and left him in a ditch. I wish I could kill all of them.'

'Perhaps we shall. They are no match for a skinny woman and a boy,' he laughed but then seeing her grief stricken face he leant forward seriously, 'I'm sorry I should have told you straight away. He's not dead my Lady, he's hurt real bad, but he's not dead.'

'Not dead?' Sansa repeated, remembering how Lord Bolton had chastised her for doing that, she too began to laugh. 'Is this really happening?'

'Yes, I am as real as this,' and he pinched her hard on the forearm. 'And this.' He placed Sandor's small dagger onto her palm.

Sansa gasped. She stood up. 'Where is he? Can you take me to him? Shall we leave now?'

'No, my Lady. Lord Bolton left with his main force just after I snuck in through the kitchens and stole myself a uniform. There are still many guards here though. We cannot escape this night because there are guards on each level of the tower. They do not notice me flitting around. I deliver wine skins to them and pass messages. But you, you could not just slip down the steps. Let me think about it. I will be back tomorrow night. Be ready.'

Sansa held on to his arm. 'Please, please come back Grendle.'

'I have to,' he said solemnly, 'otherwise the Hound said he would rip my guts out and tie them around my neck.' Then he slipped from the room like a small shadow.


	17. Chapter 17

He couldn't decide which one he wanted to throttle more: the old woman who kept dabbing her buggering bloody ointments all over him, or the lad who wouldn't stop chattering in his ear. Perhaps he would just knock them both on the head and be done with it. Sandor was deeply pissed off, stuck in a bed with two of the most relentlessly cheerful people he had ever met, who were determined to be with him every waking hour. They probably sat by him whilst he was sleeping as well, staring at him and being quietly fucking cheerful.

It was driving him insane thinking about the little bird; worrying himself sick about what might be happening to her. When he had opened his eyes in the old woman's barn surrounded by bleating goats, he thought he had woken up in some kind of hell. A hell of stinking goats.

He was unable to move himself, and he had realised quickly he was good for nothing. There was no way he could get up, let alone find Sansa. He had growled and shouted at the old woman Pearl, despite her kindness to him, but she had ignored him, told him to be patient. Kept bringing him food and changing his bandages. She told him he had survived for a reason. Sandor latched on to that thought, prayed to all the Gods that it meant he would be reunited with his beautiful Sansa again.

Then the boy had turned up, leading Stranger into the barn. The black horse was meekly obeying the boy but had snickered in greeting when he had seen the Hound lay on the floor and stuck his nose on his stomach. Sandor had winced in pain but he was overjoyed to see the beast. After stroking his fur he looked at the boy, who was filling a manger with hay for the horse. He recognised the stable lad at once.

'What the hell are you doing here? I fucking told you to make for the coast.'

The cheeky little shit had said, 'I thought you needed some help.'

Sandor had growled at him and tried to throw the nearest thing he could reach, which was an indignant little nanny goat. The boy just laughed at him. 'Calm down, I want to help you. I'm your squire now.'

'I'm not a Knight you fucking idiot and I don't need a damn squire.' He groaned, 'I just need to find Sansa.'

The boy knelt down near the Hound, bravely within reach of his large hands, 'I said, I can help you.'

'How can you help me you skinny little whelp?'

'I know who did this to you, who stole your Lady; it was Lord Bolton's men. I followed them for a while, listened to them. They were taking her to Harrenhal.'

'Was she…did they…'His voice faded away as he struggled to ask the question.

'They were a bit rough, she struggled and tried to get away and they hit her, but she was alive.'

Sandor was focused then, he knew who his enemy was. He just had to get his strength back. Pearl had taken an immediate liking to Grendle, petting him and giving him cakes. They bustled around Sandor trying to cheer him, fixing his bandages and discussing the plan to get Sansa back. After two days of being stuck in the straw with them fussing over him Sandor was ready to explode.

'I can't sit here, doing nothing, while she is with that buggering bastard Bolton. He is an evil fucker.'

Pearl sighed, 'Please mind your language in front of the boy.' She was serving dinner into bowls. As usual they took their food in the barn to keep Sandor company.

'Don't worry, I know all those words already,' said Grendle, biting into a chicken leg.

Sandor groaned loudly, 'Don't you understand, Bolton is killer.'

Pearl patted him on his big shoulder, 'Look dear, you cannot move yet, your wounds are healing fast but if you get up now you will rip them apart and they will turn rancid. You can't help her dead.'

Grendle pursed his lips and let his head flop to one side, 'Hmm,' he said, 'I have an idea.'

'What?' The Hound tried to sit up.

'I'll go to Harrenhal and get her back for you.'

Sandor slumped back down with a massive sigh, 'Gods, why didn't I think of that…you can rescue Sansa and I'll just wait here eating Pearl's rosemary cake. Won't take you long. Make sure you kill Bolton while you are there.'

'No, I'm serious,' Grendle put his food down and folded his arms, 'I can get in there and sneak her out.'

'Think about it, you daft little fool, you will get killed before you even get to the front gate.'

'I won't be going in through the front; a little rat can sneak in through the sewer. They will never even notice me.'

It took hours of discussion before Sandor gave his permission for Grendle to attempt it. 'Go then, it could be a scouting mission. You could just find out if she is still …there.' The word alive hung in the air, silent and heavy.

That had been weeks ago. Sandor was up and walking now, each day moving his muscles, building up his strength. They had agreed that he would wait until the moon was at its peak before he tried to get to Harrenhal himself. That was in six more days. Had Grendle found her? The Hound sharpened his rage and nurtured his vengeance as he practised with his sword. He had been like a kitten when he had first tried to lift it but each day he could feel strength growing like an oak tree. Whatever the little witch Pearl had given him, all those green stinking poultices and herbal drinks, well, they had worked. She was a skilled herbalist. He even liked her fussing now and her rosemary cakes were fucking delicious.


	18. Chapter 18

Grendle didn't come until the wolf hour. The moon was fat, almost full and it hung low in the sky and cast a strong light into the tower room. Soon dawn would narrow their chance of escape, but Grendle seemed relaxed as he snuck in through the door. Sansa was incredibly stressed and the panic was causing her body to shake.

The boy was holding a big bunch of iron keys and he had a pack on his shoulder. Putting the keys down he started to take things out and spread them onto the floor. The candlelight hit the planes of his shaved head, highlighting old scars.

'Take your dress off and hang it on the windowsill.'

Sansa didn't move. That was the last thing she had expected him to say.

'Trust me pretty Lady, it has to be this way.'

Sansa began to remove her skirts and bodice until she was only wearing her linen small clothes. Grendle threw her mustard dress across the sill so it flapped in the wind, then he pulled at her under dress, 'This too, no time for modesty.'

'Now, put this on.' He passed her some dark leather breeches and grey doublet. 'You are going to be a servant like me.'

Sansa could not say anything, she was so afraid this escape would fail. Ever since Grendle had left her, she had thought constantly about Sandor. All her wild plans for vengeance had evaporated. He was alive. They could be together again. She knew now that she loved him, loved him beyond anyone or anything else. He was years older than her, hideously scarred and a brutal killer but Sansa knew he was everything she needed in this life and she wanted to survive this and be with him. Bear him some sons and daughters and be quiet together; contented to be a humble Clegane, away from all intrigue and plots. Love is a fairytale, the Hound would have scoffed, but Sansa knew differently. She had seen love in Sandor's dark eyes and she wanted to be tender to him and make up for all the pain he had been through. As for revenge on those who had wronged the Starks, well, that would only lead to more bloodshed and Sansa wanted nothing to do with death, she just wanted to be alive with the Hound.

The boy helped her lace her breeches and boots, then he tied her breasts flat with a long length of cloth and fixed her doublet neatly over the top. 'Now your hair,' he said, touching a copper strand that hung to her waist. Sansa pulled back slightly.

'My hair?' she asked but she guessed he meant to crop it off, and she felt a pathetic sorrow because she was very vain and proud of her hair and she thought pitifully, but Sandor loves my hair, he told me it was beautiful so many times.

'Yes, your hair has to go,' said Grendle, brandishing a knife. 'I am not an expert Lady, but no men in this castle have hair like this. I can hack it off, so you look like a boy.'

'Wait,' Sansa said, 'Let me do it.' She plaited it quickly into a long rope and then she tied the end. 'Cut it near my head.' Grendle hacked through it with the knife and then she felt the weight fall away and she was holding the long, braided hair in her lap.

She let him finish the rest and tried not to weep as he cut pieces off; he threw the wisps out of the window where they got whipped away into the sky. Grendle was rubbing his hand over Sansa's head; he had cropped it short all over. It felt cold and Sansa shivered. She tried to stop her maudlin feelings about her hair, why was she thinking these ridiculous, shallow thoughts? Sansa remembered the hours she had spent in Kings Landing having her hair dressed and styled by different handmaidens. How they had washed it in scented oils so it shone. She had enjoyed it, but what did that matter, being a Lady hadn't made her happy. Stroking the silken strands of her hair in her lap, where it was coiled like a red snake, Sansa thought about her mother brushing it. Catelyn's touch had been so gentle and kind. Now she would never see her mother again. She resolutely wrapped her hair in a silk scarf and stuffed it into the pack.

Grendle was rubbing soot into her hair now and then he gently put it on her eyebrows as well. He pulled her in front of the mirror that was fixed to the wall. She looked completely different. A tall, thin boy who was gaunt with dark hair and blue eyes. As they stood there Grendle rubbed a bit more dirt under her cheekbones and around her mouth. 'There,' he said in a satisfied tone, 'you look like a right lad now.'

Sansa was amazed, she looked unrecognisable and she wryly noted that she made an unattractive boy; she looked gangly and grubby. She put her fingers to her forehead and felt the tufts of hair there. 'So, what's my name?' She teased Grendle, 'shall I choose or have you already thought of one for me, kind Ser?'

'Prex. That's your name. He is dead, down in the Godswood. I lured him there this evening. The likeness between the two of you is uncanny. Perhaps your father sired him on a kitchen whore twenty years ago.'

'You killed him? Just to rescue me? That is immoral and you should not have done it.'

'Don't worry Lady, he was not a nice person.'

'What do you mean?'

'I don't think you want to know. Suffice to say it is a good thing he is dead. He liked to hurt little boys like me, I just hurt him first.'

Sansa was confused but Grendle was pulling her arm and smiling reassuringly. 'Look, if the guards see us together they will think Prex is taking me somewhere. So you need to act confident, cocky, like you are used to doing what you like. He was a man of few words. If someone speaks to you just grunt. And spit. He liked to spit.' Grendle shook his head in disgust. 'Not a nice fellow at all. Now are you ready to walk out to the Godswood?'

Sansa nodded. And as if it was the most natural thing in the world Grendle led her through the door and locked it after them.


	19. Chapter 19

Sansa could not catch her breath, she felt like a dark force was inside her, in the shape of a raven. What is fear, if it is not a malignant bird, trapped in the oesophagus; feathers choking the back of the throat and the beak sharp, poised against the last shred of hope. She stumbled down the worn steps, each one was disorientating. As they reached a corridor there was a corpse on the floor.

'Watch out, he bled all over the floor.' Grendle muttered as he stepped over the inert shape. 'I needed his keys.'

Sansa stared at the skinny boy who was pulling her along, how was he killing everyone? He was just a stable boy. 'How did you..'

'Kill him? I just passed him his wine skin, waited for him to take a mouthful and stuck my blade in his throat. The Hound taught me the right spot to aim for.'

'But you are just a boy, you shouldn't be killing people.' Sansa felt tears well up in her eyes, this was all so horrible.

Grendle stopped. 'I spent lots of years wishing I could kill Grastus and his wife. Well I should have done it, and then I wouldn't have been beaten every day. Lady, we will both have to kill many men before this night is over. The Hound said killing was the sweetest thing in this world, apart from you. Are you ready?'

Sansa nodded. Her hand was on her dagger. She gathered the shreds of her courage and stood up tall. She began to walk in front, pulling Grendle as if she were leading him somewhere important. They went through four cavernous rooms, each one had different rooms leading off it, dark and full of ominous shadows. He whispered to her, 'Guards ahead, three of them sat on the steps. They are drunk. Be manly, stop drifting along; stride.'

She saw them, they were sat playing with a set of bone dice. They were laughing and hardly looked up as they went past. One of them muttered, 'Bring some more wine, boy.' Grendle nodded and joked a reply and they slipped on into another room with a dank staircase. The descended; it felt like hundreds of tiresome steps. Sansa was tired and she almost stumbled but Grendle kept encouraging her. At the bottom of the staircase it led into a large hall. Grendle pushed her on, 'We need to head for the kitchens. Go left, then right.'

Sansa strode forward; she tried to imagine she was a man and not a girl. She must not look scared, she thought, I must be brave. Grendle scuttled around like he knew the place well, calling out cheekily to some burly soldiers who were stood by the archway. They grinned at Grendle and he promised to collect them more wine. Sansa kept heading in the direction he had told her to go. She entered the steaming expanse of the kitchen. Two people were stirring huge pots. One, the fatter one, half looked over at her, 'Prex,' he called, 'did you find that little sod?' Sansa put her shoulders back and stuck her slim hips out; then she nodded and pointed behind her as Grendle trotted in. The cook called the boy over and began to berate him for stealing food from the kitchen, even as he let Grendle help himself to some freshly baked buns. Sansa stood for a moment, confused about how she should act. She tried to lean nonchalantly against a pillar. Grendle looked at her and shook his head toward a door at the back of the room. He rounded his eyes and glared at her. Sansa started to glide forward, then she remembered to saunter towards the door, she turned and coughed and grunted loudly. To her ears it sounded ridiculous but the cook just smacked Grendle across the ear and said, 'Looks like Prex wants you, get on with your work little biscuit thief.' The air was thick with swirls of steam and they walked out as casually as they could, hidden in the hot air. 'You did it,' whispered Grendle, 'you do look like that skinny git with your hair lopped off. Don't worry my Lady, a wash in a stream and you will look right charming again.'

Sansa tried to smile but she just wanted to get out of the castle as fast as they could. 'They might realise in a few moments and come after us.'

'No,' said Grendle wisely, 'they only saw what they expected to see.'

They walked out into the first light of dawn. The air was crisp and Sansa felt like shouting with joy, but they weren't beyond the walls yet and there were thousands of feet to walk before they got there. Grendle was capering along, moving ahead of her and keeping his eyes peeled for anyone who might stop them.

'Look back, look at the tower.' Sansa turned to gaze at where he pointed. She could see a dull yellow thing flapping at the uppermost window. 'Perhaps,' said Grendle, 'they will think you jumped.'

Sansa sighed, 'But there is no body at the foot of the tower Grendle'

Grendle laughed, 'Well perhaps you turned into a bird and flew away.'

They kept on, glancing around all the time, as they were fearful the alarm would sound at any moment, alerting the inhabitants that the prisoner had escaped. The castle wasn't heavily fortified, most had left for the Dreadfort but there were still plenty of sellswords and rough soldiers about. They walked on for nearly half an hour, past stables and training yards. Sansa was marvelling the whole time how large Harrenhal was when they reached a ruined outerwall with a huge archway. Beyond was the green expanse of the Godswood, the light hitting the leaves so they glittered in the weak rising sun.

There was a dark, swarthy man dressed in chain mail leant against the wall. He was picking his fingernails with his dagger. He didn't look up as they approached, just put one of his fingers into his mouth and and bit at the cuticle. Grendle whistled a cheerful tune and the man glanced towards them, his eyes were sharp and shrewd.

'Where you off to boy, not going for a nice walk with that dirty bastard are you? You can fuck off Prex, fuck off back to the sewer.' The dark haired man stood up straight and put his hand on his sword, the other gripped his dagger. Sansa stopped walking and lingered as Grendle approached the man. 'Alright Trent, let us by, we want to walk in the woods this morning. I want to go with Prex.'

Trent laughed bitterly, 'As if you would agree to that.' Moving a step closer to Sansa, he said, 'Come here Prex, I haven't beaten you for a while.'

Sansa walked towards him, as she got close to him she could see he was studying her and confusion was settling on his features. I only have seconds before he realises, she thought, so she said in her sweetest, most ladylike voice, 'You fool, do you not recognise a woman when she is stood before you?'

Trent gasped and dropped his sword slightly; he stumbled to grab it and moved towards her. As he did so Grendle came up fast on his left side and smacked him with a rock in the side of the head. Trent groaned in surprise and fell onto his knees. He was shocked and dazed but not fatally hurt; his soldier instincts were getting him back onto his feet and looking for Grendle who smacked him with the rock again, only just dodging the dagger that Trent thrust towards him. This time Trent dropped his sword and rolled onto his back. Blood was gushing out of a wound on his brow. Grendle stood on the hand that was holding the dagger. He looked at Sansa, 'Kill him now, Lady.'

Sansa walked slowly towards them. She held the Hound's dagger in her hand. Trent was thrashing, he was still a danger, and she had to do this. Grendle said, 'Cut his throat.' She moved fast now, her fear was making her hand strong, she jabbed the sharp blade toward the bearded neck. Trent was shouting, he was weakening but still making a noise and she was frightened more soldiers would hear him so she stabbed him with her eyes closed until he was silent. Then Grendle was talking to her and pulling her towards the Godswood but she couldn't hear anything apart from the thrashing of her own heart and the singing in her ears; it was a while before she realised it was the songbirds singing in the canopy.


	20. Chapter 20

The moon was rising slowly; it was as fat as a retired whore's backside. Sandor stared as the white rock rose above the tree line. The tips of the beech trees covered it but the damn thing was unmistakably full. And she wasn't here. Grendle was probably dead and Sansa was…Sandor stood up. He wasn't going to fucking think about that. He would just end it all if she were dead. After he had killed every last person in that castle and obliterated the Bolton bloodline from Westeros. No, he had to focus on the plan. Get to Harrenhal and rescue the pair of them. No doubt they were both locked in a dungeon and he had to rescue two people now, not one. What the hell had he been thinking letting that little bastard go off to rescue Sansa, and giving him his favourite dagger as well? He must have been bloody deranged from his wounds.

He stomped around the yard that marked the space between the cottage, barn and outhouse. The moonlight glinted from his breastplate. It was a small space for a big man and it didn't satisfy his need to pace. He could feel Pearl's eyes from the window and he could sense her worrying about him. It was both infuriating and comforting. He didn't want her to stand there anxiously so he stopped his angry march, turned abruptly and went into the stable. It was very gloomy in there but the horse was blacker than any shadow and was easy to make out, stood in the stall cropping at his hay. The goats skittered away. They did not like this big, brutish man who kicked at them. Stranger snickered a greeting and Sandor went to him and picked up a brush. He began to slowly groom the horse, it wasn't necessary but it calmed him. He remembered when grooming this beast was the only gentle thing he did. Now, he had the memory of holding Sansa. Listening to her tell him stories and sing him sweet songs. Kissing her and enjoying how much she liked it, how much she liked him. That sort of thing was more addictive than wine. More addictive than killing. Was it lost to him now? Sandor placed his forehead against the warm shoulder of his war horse. If she was dead, then he was dead.

Gregor would fucking laugh if he could see me now, thought Sandor, mooning over a girl like a lovesick, weak puppy. I am a fierce dog, a hound made to pursue and rip men apart. I have changed, yet he has not. No, Gregor would not laugh, he would find her. Then he would torture, rape and kill her, because that is what would cause this Hound the most pain. Sandor growled. All of his life Gregor had been there, abusing him, killing his only kin and making his life an unholy misery. He had escaped from him but only into service with the Lannisters and it was then Sandor found some relief. When the first man had died under his blade it was so terrible, yet so sweet. The power to decide something, to flick a coin and say you live and you die. Sandor had realised that each time he killed someone it satisfied the ache he had for vengeance. Each person he killed _was_ Gregor. But it never lasted, after the bloodlust faded and he was left, once more alone in his chambers or stood outside Joffrey's room, well then the hatred boiled again. Hated for himself and hatred for Gregor. It was an evil cycle that could only be ended with his brother's death but he couldn't do it. They were both Lannister men, sworn to their service. It meant for a truce of sorts, they avoided each other but the hatred was there; as palpable as scent, it emanated from the pair of them. But apart from the fact they were both Tywin's men, there was the curse of kinslaying that Sandor did not want to petrify his soul. Gregor was cursed; he was empty, consumed with hatred and evil. Yet he, Sandor, had an ounce of purity at his core. There was, despite all the killings and aggression, a part of him that was still the child he once was. A boy who was kind to little birds.

* * *

The goats were bleating some blasted conversation to each other in their pen, but between the noise Sandor thought he heard something, someone calling. He shook his head, fear that his fever might creep back and make him slip into hallucination again was ever on his mind. His wounds were healed but the memory of that blasted hell where he had dreamed of burning things was fresh and vivid. Wait, there was a sound. It was there, faintly, his name. He stumbled out of the dark stable and into the white glint of the yard. The trees were black on every side. He peered out, trying to make out something. Someone. Then two figures, indistinct and ghostly appeared between the trees. As they approached and took form Sandor felt his heart grow heavy as a blackened stone. His giant chest contracted and he wanted to stab the pair of them. How fucking dare Grendle bring some boy here and not her, what in Seven Hells had happened? Grendle was laughing now and the Hound started to shake. But then the tall figure ran up to him and was kissing him and Sandor was saying her name in confusion and wonder; Sansa, Sansa, Sansa. Then she had slipped out of his bewildered arms and lay unconscious on the floor.

* * *

They sat opposite each other in the little cottage. Pearl had fussed and patted Sansa. Took her inside and heated water for her. Wouldn't let the Hound near her until she had done whatever womanly things needed doing or saying. Healed her tiredness and whatever wounds she had suffered. The Hound shivered, was she hurt? Grendle had washed himself in the stream, his naked, skinny white body running there and back whilst the Hound trailed after him, trying to get details from him. But Grendle just cajoled him to wait, to let your Lady speak of it all first. So the Hound had simmered in frustration, nibbled on a rosemary twig and waited. And now she sat across from him, her Tully blue eyes cast down at her plate of fruit, refusing to catch his eye. She had tied some pale blue, rose patterned material around her head to cover her shorn locks. It made her look like a Septa.

The Hound gripped his goblet of wine fiercely and took deep gulps of the thick, blackberry liquid, it was syrup sweet. Like all of Pearl's brews it was fiercely potent. Grendle had been given some ale made from honey, it was as light and sweet as he was this night. Laughing at every comment, grinning at Sansa and teasing her so she looked up with her wet, sea colored eyes and smiled sweetly at him. The Hound could not speak, he was dumbstruck with relief and amazement that they were there, that Grendle had done it. Pearl served Sansa a pale pink wine in a fine cut glass goblet, some treasure she had found from the darkest part of her pantry, something fit for a lady. The wine was scented, made from rose petals and the aroma was too beautiful. It lingered in the air and the Hound inhaled it and felt like he was breathing in Sansa's essence. She looked so damn sad, sat there with her elegant fingers gripping the fragile glass; Sandor was baffled about her silence and doggedly stubborn, refusing to speak outright to her.

Grendle told the tale, with Sansa only adding the odd word here and there. She said nothing about her time before Grendle had arrived. She was proud of the boy, looking at him with fond affection as he recounted his ingenuity. Despite his feelings the Hound could not help but smack the lad on the back and praise him. He wanted to hear every part, and wanted to hear it again. He laughed as Grendle acted out each scene, imitating Sansa's deer-like frame morphing into Prex's swagger. Pearl was overjoyed that the plan had worked; she kept patting them all and filling their glasses. In time, the boy flopped exhausted in his chair and the Hound lifted him to bed. Pearl smiled at them and then she too, went up the little wooden staircase.

'There is another bedroom in the loft above the stable.' The Hound stood up and offered his large hand to Sansa, 'Shall I take you there, my Lady.'

She nodded so fucking politely and elegantly it made him want to bark at her as she took his hand. She felt like a stranger. She was trembling and he led her gently from the cottage, his whole body desired to hold her, kiss her, have her… but he tried to act like a gallant Knight; escort her not ravish her. She was so refined she did not express a flicker of surprise when he showed her to her bower of goats, but acted like it was a jewelled bedchamber. She ascended the wooden steps like a princess and Sandor felt like he should sleep beneath her in the stable, like the dog he was. He waited at the bottom of the steps for long minutes, his hopes and fears swirling together. Her voice was small, but firm. 'I'm so cold Sandor; won't you sleep up here and keep me warm?'


	21. Chapter 21

It was dark. They couldn't have a naked flame amidst the piles of sweet hay and straw. They had to rely on touch to find the bed. It wasn't really a bed, rather a thick pile of straw covered in furs with a patchwork blanket to cover them with. Sansa was already lying down. She watched his shape move from the dim light that shone from the small square space where the ladder was then he vanished into the shadows. She could hear him as he removed his clothes. The clink of the weapons he always carried on him. The smell of him, metal polish, leather and something else, something that was uniquely him; she had missed that smell. She shivered in anticipation.

She was glad it was dark in here, now he wouldn't have to look at her. She had thought to send him away, but her longing for him was too much, she wanted to be held by him. Yet she was afraid of what he must think of her now. He had been so shocked when he saw her; he looked as if he might strike her. Sansa felt like she had been invaded by Prex, washed away with the boy disguise. She was so repulsive without her hair. Pearl had washed what was left, but it was hopeless. Her most attractive feature was gone and she was bony from the weeks in the dungeon. Her body still showed the scars of the beating she had endured when she had been taken to Harrenhal. The red marks stood out vividly against her pale, freckled skin. It looked vile; it made her want to be ill when she had stood before the mirror. She didn't look like the woman the Hound had fallen in love with. Sansa wasn't even sure who she was anymore. The old Sansa who loved lemon cakes and knight tales seemed a thousand years ago. Sansa clenched her fists to stop herself from crying.

Sandor was by the bed now. Sansa could hear his soft breathing as he lowered himself down next to her. He was naked apart form his linen breeches. His chest was so close to her cheek she could feel his body heat. She leant her face against him and he wrapped his huge arms around her. She could hear his heart beating and the regular thump of it calmed her nerves. He was so tall, so big compared to her that Sansa felt safe for the first time since they parted. Then she began to sob, great wracking tears but he didn't let her go or ask her anything, he just held her tightly and stroked her back until she fell asleep.

* * *

'Here, little bird,' the Hound's voice rumbled, 'I brought you some water.'

Sansa sat up as he offered her a bone cup. She blinked in the morning light that was seeping though the cracks in the wooden roof. She put the thin lip of the cup to her mouth and drank down the cold draft in one deep pull. 'Thank you, Se…' She almost said it, but stopped herself before she did. He looked at her from beneath raised brows but he didn't chastise her. Instead he looked concerned, an expression she had never seen on the Hound's brutal face before. It fit him uncomfortably, like a child trying on his father's cloak. Sansa wished he would bark at her or growl his displeasure at her foolishness. Or that he would huff into her skin and murmur half made words as he licked her flesh. Instead he stared at her from a few feet away.

'Come here, sit with me,' Sansa patted the patchwork blanket. 'Please.'

He obeyed her. Clumsily settling his large frame next to her he muttered, 'You slept deeply. I could not sleep. I walked in the woods for a while.'

'Why could you not find the path to sleep? It came easily to me.'

'I was thinking.'

Sansa sighed. Sometimes speaking with Sandor felt like conversing with a rock, immovable and stubborn. He felt as remote as a star to her at this moment and just as unreachable.

Still, she persisted, 'Thinking about what?'

'What happened to you at Harrenhal. I was wondering why you do not say.'

'Nothing happened. They kept me in a dungeon for a time. Then Lord Bolton ordered me to be moved to a tower room. Then Grendle came.'

'Did they… mistreat you?' His voice sputtered as he spoke. He could not look at her.

'What do you mean exactly?' She pushed him hard on his shoulder and he jumped in surprise. 'If you are asking if they used me, just say so. I can understand that would alter your feeling for me as your wife.'

'No,' he said grabbing her by the arms, 'Are you fucking mad girl? Nothing could change how I feel about you. I just want to talk to you about what you…went through.'

'So if all of Bolton's men had raped me you would still want me?' Her voice was sharp, her eyes stared defiantly into his dark ones.

'Yes, Sansa, I would still want you but you would have to wait until I killed every last one of those bastards before I could rest again and be your husband.'

She continued to stare at him. 'You really mean that, don't you?' She reached out and touched his burnt skin.

He pushed his face into her hand and closed his eyes. 'Of course Sansa, this dog mates for life. I'm yours; do with me as you will. Command me to kill Roose Bolton and I will do it.'

They sat still. Neither could speak. Then she put her hand under his rough chin and lifted it so that he was looking at her again. 'Sandor, they beat me and starved me but they didn't rape me. Let me try to explain, it is hard to understand what happened and I cannot give details exactly, it felt like an evil dream, but I will try to tell it as best as I can remember. Much of the time I was in pain, I thought you were dead and I gave up hope.'

Sandor was stroking her arms now, 'Just tell me slowly, we have time now, as much time as it takes for an evil tale, my little bird.'

'Once we arrived at the castle two men beat me. I passed out and when I woke up I was in the dungeon. It lasted for ten days or so, I tried to count the times it got dark but sometimes I think I slept for a long time.'

'Were you badly hurt?'

'Yes, it felt terribly painful, worse than anything I had felt in my life but no, it wasn't serious, do not fret. It was not real wounds, not like these.' And she placed her hand on the angry red scar tissue on his chest. 'How did you survive?'

He growled, 'Longing for you and longing for vengeance.'

Sansa laughed and they moved closer to each other. 'I wanted vengeance also; once Lord Bolton came to tell me my mother and brother are dead. That Winterfell is a ruin. I wanted to kill those men who had left you dead in a ditch. I imagined different ways.'

'I don't understand why Bolton did not send you to Kings Landing.'

'Oh, he explained how that would ruin his plans. He needed me to be dead. He apologised, he was very polite about it all.'

'But then, why are you alive? Bolton is not a man to shrink from killing a little wench like you.'

Sansa slumped in Sandor's arms and her voice became low, 'This part I thought I had dreamed. Then I thought I had gone mad. But it was real, as real as Joffrey showing me my father's head. It was the night before they were to leave for the Dreadfort, I guess, because it was so hectic and noisy everywhere. I was terrified because I thought they would kill me before they left. Then Bolton sent me a yellow dress to wear and had me take supper with him in his quarters and he…'

'Go on,' Sandor encouraged her, 'you can't upset me, just tell me what happened.'

'He told me how I was too beautiful to kill, that he wanted to keep me as his woman, how he would have me kept somewhere for his pleasure and wasn't I thankful for his mercy?'

'Were you thankful? I am fucking thankful he thought you were too beautiful to kill, even if you had to pay for that favour from him.'

'He said I was a beautiful maiden.'

'Aye, you are.'

'No, I am not a maiden and I told him so. I told him how I had enjoyed it with you many times, all over the countryside. I told him in detail how the Hound had fucked me every possible way and how I had loved it.'

'Sansa!' His mouth dropped open and his eyes went round. 'We hardly… made love at all. Why would you provoke him when he was offering you the chance to live?'

'I didn't care if he killed me, I didn't want to be his woman. I am your woman.' Sansa shuddered, 'His skin was clammy and he had eyes like a snake. Dead eyes. He killed Robb!'

'What did he say? What did he do?'

'He ordered his guards to take me to the yard outside. It was night still, but I could see many guards and men around me in the moonlight. I was not frightened. I wanted it to end.' Sansa sounded stronger as she remembered it, 'Bolton was seated on a horse, many others were milling around on horseback. They began to leave but he stood over me. He said to them, you can all have the Hound's bitch, use her until she is dead and then burn her body. Then he turned on his horse and galloped away from Harrenhal.'

Sandor pulled her close to him. 'No, no,' he whispered, 'not my little bird.' He kissed her on her cheeks and lips. Sansa could feel he was weeping for her.

'There is not much more,' she said, 'I collapsed on the floor, I gave up and waited for them to attack me, but no-one did. Not one man touched me. After a while, one of the soldiers picked me up and locked me back in the tower.

'Weeks passed; they fed me, but none of them spoke to me. Nothing until Grendle came. I thought he was still there in castle, Bolton I mean, that it was some kind of trick or mental torture. Then I would begin to believe he was really gone, that he had left thinking I was dead, but I couldn't understand why those men had not killed me, as he had ordered.'

'You are too beautiful to kill. Perhaps they thought that.'

Sansa laughed bitterly, 'Perhaps they were all true knights?'

Sandor laughed too, and the pain between them felt lightened, just as the sun rose higher and filled the little loft with a joyful radiance.

The big man went to kiss her but she pulled away once more. 'I am not beautiful anymore, I am ugly,' she said. Sansa rubbed her cropped hair and screwed up her face in disgust. 'Even you thought I was a boy last night.'

He shook his head, 'No, you bloody well are not, you daft bird. Grendle fixed you a good disguise, that's all, and it washed off. You look like a woman again now.' Sandor ran his fingertips down her clavicle to her breastbone and slipped his hand beneath the neckline of her dress.

'You loved my hair,' she said pitifully, 'it was my best feature.'

'Yes it was damn pretty stuff, but that wasn't what I wanted to fuck now was it? It was Sansa and you are still you.'

He kissed her then, a long, deep kiss that made her forget her self-pity.

'You are so vain Sansa,' he whispered, 'so silly, you don't realise that your best feature is your courage. Lots of pretty women at court, but you were the bravest. That's why I desired you. All the times Joffrey taunted you or beat you and you never flinched or screamed for help. You are brave, like your father was. A true Stark. You are the strongest woman I ever met and it made me want you. It made me love you, little bird.'


	22. Chapter 22

Grendle said, 'I know why.' Then he carried on gnawing at the fish head in his grubby fingers. The Hound looked up from the small fire where he was cooking the trout that they had caught during the early hours of the morning. The fish were cooking quickly, but not as quickly as Grendle was eating them. Bits of bone and skin were lying around the fallen tree the boy was using as a seat.

'Come on lad,' said the Hound as he got up and kicked out the embers of the fire, 'we have to get back now, those women should not be left on their own for long.'

Grendle picked up the basket of fish and then the Hound took it off him saying. 'I'll carry that and you tell me why, if you really know. No lies now, you little sod.'

'Would I lie?' Grendle smacked Sandor on the chest and scrunched up his face in a winning smile. 'I would never lie to you.'

Sandor humphed dubiously as he slung the basket on to one of his huge shoulders and began to weave his way through the trees, 'That was a lie about never telling a lie. Your name probably isn't even Grendle.'

'It is, my mother gave it to me. It's a wildling name.'

'Yes, I know that, little wildling. Now, tell me what you learned when you were in Bolton's service.'

'They were all scared of Sansa.'

'Why the fuck would those sellswords and buggering Northmen be scared of Sansa?'

'Yes, I was surprised. She's not exactly vicious is she?'

'A woman isn't difficult to kill,' said the Hound bitterly. 'Why didn't they follow their Lord's orders?'

'Firstly they weren't his main regiment; they were a rag tag group he gathered on the tails of his forces he pledged to Robb Stark.' Grendle sounded less like a boy now, more like an experienced veteran of warfare. He even pushed his chest out as he scampered along trying to keep up with the Hound's massive strides. It made Sandor smile to see Grendle acting like a soldier but he didn't laugh out loud. He owed this child so much, besides he was a warrior who had killed men to rescue Sansa.

'So what, they rebelled against Bolton? That still doesn't explain what happened on the night Bolton gave her to them.' The Hound shook his head with disgust. 'I don't know any murdering bastards who would have turned down the chance of screwing a noble lady like Sansa.'

'You wouldn't.'

'No I wouldn't. Dogs might kill, but they don't rape defenceless girls.' The Hound looked down at Grendle, 'There's no pleasure in it if the woman doesn't enjoy it. You should remember that.'

'Oh, I will. I remember everything you tell me.'

They were walking along the edge of the stream, following it back to the thick part of the woods where the cottage was hidden. It wasn't far now so the Hound put down his basket and pulled out his dagger. He leant against an oak tree and used it clean some dirt from his fingernails, his dark eyes cast down, concentrating on his task. Grendle sat on the floor nearby, took out his own small blade and began to copy him. The Hound flicked a glance toward him and smothered a smile. Then he said, 'So, if you know why they didn't kill Sansa, tell me. Before I send you to each one of the Seven Hells.'

'Well, no one would say anything at first, but they were all talking about it. In whispers. So I listened. Creeped about and listened to all their whispers.'

'And?'

Grendle bent his mouth to his hand to nibble at his thumb so his voice sounded muffled, 'Singers'

'What?' The Hound barked, 'what singers?'

'Not singers, you daft old dog, fingers.'

'Fingers?' Sandor squinted in confusion.

'Someone called Fingers ordered them not to hurt her. They had to keep her there. Unharmed. He was sending someone to get her.'

'Petyr Baelish,' growled the Hound, 'also called Littlefinger.'

'Yep,' said Grendle, 'that's him, he owns Harrenhal now and he wanted Sansa.'


	23. Chapter 23

Sandor ran back to the cottage. He covered the ground fast; his huge strides were determined and purposeful. Fear filled him. He could imagine the well oiled voice of Littlefinger whispering orders. Sandor had often watched him at King's Landing as he had made light remarks for Joffrey's ear. He was an intriguing man to observe because Baelish was like a pet snake; he covered his deadly nature under a veneer of charm and compelling personality. Yet, he was only sheathing his venom; it was beneath the surface all the time. The Hound had sensed danger whenever Littlefinger was near him. More secretive than Varys, colder than Pycelle. Why would he be interested in Sansa? It was the worst news, worse than all the Lannisters. Because Sandor had never worked out what was driving Littlefinger. What game was he playing?

The Hound ducked to enter the little doorway and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom in the small kitchen. They weren't there. He walked quietly toward the passage way into the other room. He passed the stairs, looked up to check for anyone and then pulled out his dagger. Silently he bent into the sitting room. The two women were sat opposite each other in the back part of the room next to the fireplace. They were sewing. As he stood there staring at them, his heart pounding, they did not notice him, they were so focused on the embroidery that were bent over. Pearl was hidden by the arms of her chair but Sansa was leaning forward to watch the old lady's stitching. It displayed her white shoulder where her brown woollen dress had slipped down. Her cropped red hair made her look even more pleasing to his eye because it exposed her long, fragile neck. Sandor found desire in the smallest of places. The curve of her ear, the sweep of her elegant jawline, the tiny freckles on her shoulder blade.

He shuffled slightly so his boots clunked against the flagstones. Pearl and Sansa turned to look at him. Sansa's face was pretty but it was the huge smile that rose across her face when she saw Sandor that made her look beautiful. It lit up her cool blue eyes; she was radiant, because of him.

'Expecting trouble Sandor?' Pearl smiled gently and nodded towards the dagger in his hand.

'Not exactly, I just didn't like leaving you alone that long.' His scarred mouth twitched and he clenched his jaw, 'Don't know who might find this cottage and you inside, unprotected.'

'We were fine, this cottage is well hidden. Drink, dear?' Pearl got up and started to go towards the kitchen.

'No, I need to speak to Sansa. Come girl,' his voice was low, 'let's go to the stinking goat house.'

Sansa smiled and took his big hand. She had to jog to keep up with him as he hurried her along.

* * *

They pulled themselves up the little ladder and into the small loft space. It was cramped and warm. Sandor looked at her searchingly, then he kissed her until she melted entirely against him and he lifted her feet from the floor. He pushed her onto the straw bed, 'Take your clothes off,' he said, 'quickly Sansa.'

'I thought you wanted to talk to me.' She raised her eyebrows at him and folded her arms across her chest. 'What is the matter?'

'After,' he mumbled, his eyes fixed on hers as he quickly shed his layers of leather clothing and his linen. Then he was naked. His arms and shoulders were huge and muscled; the years of hefting a broadsword had trained and defined his body so there was no spare fat on him, just solid flesh. His forearms and chest were covered in scars. The wounds from the recent arrows stood out freshly, red and garish against his pale skin. His body was well proportioned and beautiful, even with his scars it was obvious he was healthy and in the prime of his adult life. His chest was covered with a smattering of dark hair. It trailed down his stomach in a line and then thickened around his groin.

Sansa let her eyes follow the line of hair downwards like a map… down, down to where his manhood was standing out. It looked big and hard like the rest of him. He is so incredible, she thought wonderingly. Her eyes grew rounder as she stared at it and then he stepped towards her, closing the small space between them and he was lying on top of her. He balanced his weight on his forearms and knees so their bodies were almost touching but not quite. As she breathed in her breasts just brushed against his chest and then with each exhale the sweet contact was lost. She panted faster.

'Off I said,' Sandor growled and he leant on one arm and pulled her dress up with his other hand, and lifted it above her head. Her small clothes followed and were flung across the loft. Now she was as naked as he was and his hands quickly began to stroke her skin, starting with her shoulders and down her slim arms. Sansa placed her white hands on his tanned forearms, enjoying the contrast between then and the feel of his hot skin. She closed her eyes and her head leaned back, exposing the white neck that Sandor had admired only minutes ago in the cottage. He quickly bent his own head to kiss her. He pulled her into his embrace so he could move her and kiss the parts he wanted to linger on. The soft skin under her jaw, the lobes of her ears. She was moaning, very softly, very politely; a lady's response.

'I'll make you sing before I'm finished with you,' the Hound whispered gruffly to her as he reached her shoulders and then he bit her gently on her silken flesh. Sansa gasped as she felt it, his teeth felt so good it made her ache between her legs. She stroked his head, his face, kissed his forehead, nose and found his mouth. His kisses were so intense and passionate she felt intoxicated. Sansa wanted to keep kissing like that forever. They kissed until they couldn't think about anything but joining their bodies together and they had to stop, breathless with lust. The Hound was saying, 'I will keep you safe, I promise,' and he pulled her on top of his body and he was stroking her back so she shivered with anticipation as his long fingers followed her spine, down the roundness of her backside and almost touched her between her legs, but each time he slipped his hand back to her shoulder and did it again.

She began to beg for more, more please, but words weren't making it happen quick enough. Sansa wanted him to take her now. She kissed him and pressed her breasts against his chest. He moved her so he could suckle each one, she gasped at the feeling, how fine it felt; 'It feels so good,' she whispered in his hair and she held on to his massive shoulders and delighted at the feel of his muscles beneath her fingertips. Then he rolled her down beneath him and she was so wet and ready for him he slipped inside her with a groan of longing. He knew he wouldn't last long. He didn't want it to be over, he wanted it to go on and on...moving in and out of her as slowly and gently as he could, but each movement was too good. He tried lingering over it, in and then out, it was so damn lovely, so sweet. Oh, it was too sweet and beautiful; hearing her saying his name over and over again. It felt like coming home. Sandor pushed in as deep as he could and he couldn't stop and she wrapped her arms and legs around him as if she never wanted to let him go. Their lovemaking had taken all of ten minutes. He whispered that next time he would fuck her all night and all day but she just laughed and kissed him.

'Now, my love,' Sansa said, 'Now tell me what what was so important.'

The Hound lay back with his arms folded beneath his head and told her what he knew about Littlefinger. The red headed woman looked perplexed.

'But he is…was my mother's friend. Perhaps he wants to help me.'

Sandor shook her slightly, 'Trust me Sansa Stark, that bastard is not your friend.'

'Sansa Clegane,' she said mildly.

'Aye, little wife…you are a Clegane now, so show some damn sense. Littlefinger is a murdering bastard who never gets his fingers bloody, he uses other methods. We have to get far away from here. We must go north.'

'But Bolton…' Sansa shuddered.

'Further north than that. Over the wall. Come, dress yourself, we must speak to the others. Every moment our enemies are searching for you.'

'And you.'

The Hound grinned his hideous, lopsided grin and said, 'Fuck them, I'm dead, remember? No one is looking for me little bird. '

Sansa thought how she loved his grin.

* * *

As they stepped out of the stable into the bright mid-morning sunshine Grendle passed by them muttering; 'These fish weren't heavy at all, no it wasn't any trouble to bring them back all on my own, no trouble at all.'

Sandor turned and gave him a gentle boot in the backside, 'Stop moaning my lad, or I'll give you something to moan about.'

Grendle stumbled slightly and looked over his shoulder with a scowl, 'I hope you choke on a fish bone.'

'I hope you enjoy filleting and smoking them all. That's your job for the rest of today. Then we leave tomorrow before sunrise.'

The boy didn't look surprised; he put his basket of fish by the woodpile and just nodded. 'Yes, Ser Sandor.'

'If I didn't have to speak to Pearl I would belt you into the middle of next week for that.'

The boy rubbed his shaved head. 'You would have to catch me first. And I am obviously faster than you old dog.'

Sandor barked with laughter, 'Want to test your theory, you little bugger?'

Sansa was in a fit of quiet giggles, leaning against the stable, 'Oh, he is very fast, you would never catch him.'

Grendle just grinned broadly, 'Look to your lady, you don't want to show her how slow you are in front of her.'

'Get on with the fish.' Sandor threw his dagger in one quick movement so it hit the wood inches from Grendle's skull.

Grendle didn't flinch, he just nodded and winked, his insolent grin was infectious as he called out, 'Could you get a rabbit for lunch, old dog, I'm a bit sick of trout now.'


	24. Chapter 24

'This is cinnamon and this is clove,' the old woman was holding up different pouches of herbs and spices, 'they both help with pain relief. This is witch hazel bark, you can boil it to extract the goodness and it heals scrapes, cuts or burns. Not old scars though, only fresh burns.'

Sansa picked up the different packages. She lifted one to her nose and inhaled deeply. She smelt flower gardens. 'Lavender?'

'Yes, good, it is lavender. Excellent for helping you to sleep. But it's also healing. Mix it with the witch hazel. There is also dried rose petals, bay leaves, mint and sage here for you to take. All make good tonics when boiled as a tea.'

Sansa picked out another. Another deep breath. This time she coughed and sneezed.

'That is black pepper. From Braavos. My husband traded some rabbit pelts for a sack, years ago now. This white one is salt. Both are good for stews.' Pearl laughed and then turned to fetch a small, ceramic jar. 'This is honey. Don't be tempted to eat it. If someone is really wounded, spread it on the open wound. It will help to heal it.'

'How did you learn all this?'

'My mother taught me. She was very skilled. She had a garden full of every kind of healing herb and flower. She was a midwife and was called for at all hours to help women through their labours.'

'What did she look like?' Sansa was making a circle on the table out of rose petals.

'Look like?' Pearl smiled, 'Well, it's been many years since she died but I remember her face very well. Her eyes were kind and green, bright like birch leaves.'

'How old were you when she died?'

'Oh, about your age actually. Did you know Sansa dear, that the people we love who have died, visit us in our dreams? Every year or so I will have a dream of my mother or my son so vivid it is like they are really with me and we have spent time together. I believe they really do slip into our dreams to visit. My son is sometimes the little boy he once was, or the grown man I last saw. Each time is a comfort to me because I never feel parted from them.'

Sansa closed her eyes and thought about her father's face. Then she pictured her mother and Robb. How she hoped they would visit her in her dreams. Sandor's face rushed into her mind. He was still alive. Strong and vital, fierce and protective. Sansa turned to Pearl and placed her hand on top of hers.

'Thank you,' she said, 'for everything you have done for us. For saving his life when he came to you. I am so grateful, because I could not live without him.'

'It feels that way, doesn't it? Like you are one person, joined together and cannot be apart. I remember love like that. But if you had survived Harrenhal you would have made a life without him.'

'I cannot imagine life without him.'

'Then I am glad I was here to help you both. Are you sleeping together dear, as man and wife?'

'Yes we have,' stammered Sansa, 'but not many times.'

'Since you returned here?'

Sansa nodded.

'Good,' said Pearl, 'I am glad that nothing was damaged in his manhood. I tried to ask him but he bit my head off. Such a grumpy dog, as Grendle calls him. Anyway, I am pleased for you both that you can make love but have you thought about children?'

'…children?'

'Sansa, you do know that lying with a man is how babies are made?'

'Yes, of course…but I didn't think of that, I was thinking of other things.' The thought of Sandor's mouth pressed against her nipple rushed into her mind and made her blush a dark shade of pink.

'Do not worry my dear Sansa, I have herbs that can stop you catching with child, but you must drink it as a tea each morning. Here let me show you what is in it.'

Pearl gave her a large pouch of leaves and then explained each and every ingredient, pointing to the original stalks and blooms that littered the room.

Sansa thought about babies, how she would love to have them one day. But now they were heading into the frozen wilderness. How could they ever have children? It was going to be a journey of hardship and terror. Winter was coming.

She tried to stop thinking about it and thought instead how pretty all of the various bunches of herbs and flowers were. They were tied with different coloured ribbons and hung from the beams. Pearl kept them in the small attic room that Grendle had been sleeping in. There was a little window, beneath the heavy eaves of the roof. The view seemed dull at first glance, just trees, with nothing to draw the eye. But then Pearl had pointed out the different songbirds dancing in the branches. Sansa had sat by the window for the last two hours watching them as Pearl moved different bunches of herbs around and filled pouches for her to take when they left. They had been talking and laughing but now Sansa fell into a gloom.

Sansa sighed. Pearl looked over at her. 'What is it, dear?'

'I don't want to go. I want to stay here with you. All of us. Sandor, Grendle and I. We could be happy here.' Sansa drew her legs up so she was curled into a ball in her wooden chair. Her pointed chin rested on her knees and her slim arms gripped her legs. Despite only being here for a few days, she felt deeply unhappy that they had to leave this homely cottage. Here, she felt safe and she felt useful. Pearl was so kind and interesting. Sansa was enjoying hearing about the herbs and how to heal people. Pearl said she had a natural ability for identifying the different tastes in the teas she brewed. They had spent an hour this morning making different teas with Pearl asking Sansa to guess what each one was. The old lady had been delighted how quickly Sansa had started to recognise the various flavours and complimented her with delight. That was the first time anyone had ever said that Sansa had an ability for something. Apart from looking nice or sewing. Or chirping like a bird.

Oh, but the Hound thinks I am courageous, Sansa thought, and smiled to herself.

Pearl measured some dried powder into a pouch and said, 'You are just frightened my dear. You do not belong here; you need to be with your family.'

'Sandor is my family now.'

'What about your sister? Don't you want to see her again? When all this war and fighting is over?'

'The war will never be over. Lord Bolton would not let us meet because I am supposed to be dead. He would kill me if I tried so Arya and I will never meet again.' Sansa began to cry, the tears were silent but they ran down her cheeks and splashed onto her knees. The thought of never seeing Arya's cross little face in this lifetime devastated her. Why did it have to be this way? Why did everyone have to die or be lost? The fear in her heart was that of Sandor dying. She would not cry in front of him again, because he needed her to be strong but here, in this little room, Sansa felt like she could weep for what she had lost and what she feared.

Pearl moved so she could embrace her and she hummed an old tune she used to sing to her son when he had been small. It was a melody that all mothers instinctively croon to their little ones and it sounded familiar to Sansa. It reminded her of Catelyn and Winterfell, but it didn't make her feel sad, instead it comforted her.

Pearl moved back to the table and got out a leather back pack. It was finely made, with different pockets. She began to fill it with the different herbs and remedies. 'You must trust to fate. You escaped an incredibly dangerous situation. Sandor survived wounds that would have killed a lesser man. You must believe you are meant to be together and for some purpose. Trust your husband's plan. He desires to keep you safe above all things, so if that means heading north, then so be it.'

Sansa rubbed her face with a handkerchief and sat up. 'Show me again the ones for healing. Tell me what I would need to know if he was wounded like that again.'


	25. Chapter 25

Grendle had slipped into a village to buy supplies. He wandered through the collection of dejected looking houses. The thatched dwellings sat on the edge of the river and it flowed past as fast as it could, not wanting to linger in such a dismal place. There were boats moored up and men worked on their lines and nets. Fishing was the commodity here. Freshwater trout, eels and salmon swam in plentiful amounts and the village had bountiful food supplies yet it looked miserable and poor. Grendle had studied a map before he left so he knew that this village was in Tully lands. Riverrun wasn't that far from here and beyond that the rivers ran on and merged at the Twins. How they would get past all this water was beyond him. The map had been crisscrossed in blue lines. Grendle had never seen a map before but the Hound had given him one and shown him how to read it. The Hound had three maps stored in his pack and he had selected a small one and handed it to Grendle. It was rolled up in his jacket now, next to his breastbone. It was made of thin, soft leather and the land had been stitched on in embroidery silks. Small, fierce creatures had been worked around the edges. Dragons breathing fire and sinuous sea monsters. Grendle liked an owl that was done with white and cream threads. It had eyes like two small moons and fierce claws holding a tiny grey mouse.

There were two inns either side of the river linked by a ferry. Grendle went into the closest one and brought four skins of red wine for the Hound. The innkeeper wasn't very interested in the boy, took his money and threw the skins at him. There were not many people in the inn this early in the morning and the ones who were looked half asleep. Grendle wanted to listen to their conversations though, to try and gather any news, so he ordered a dish of oats and milk and sat by the fireplace. Three men were eating breakfast in grumpy but companionable silence, swigging dark ale and gulping down eggs and fish.

'Want a job, boy?' The oldest, grey whiskered one fixed him with a short-sighted blue eye from beneath squinted brows, 'I could do with a hand this morn fixing me boat.'

'No, I'm leaving after this meal.'

'Where you from? You're not from these parts from the look of you.'

Grendle slurped his porridge and said, 'I'm from all over. Travel around. Heading South to King's Landing, looking for work there.'

One of the other men asked, 'who you here with?'

The boy sucked up the last spoon of breakfast and said, 'Only the Old Gods.'

The men all laughed and carried on with breaking their fast, slipping into easy conversation about fishing and moaning about their wives. Grendle sat back in his chair and supped his pale ale. He closed his eyes and listened.

Grey Whiskers said, 'Terrible what's happened to Lord Edmure, ain't it?'

'Yes,' said another with a thick riverland accent, 'Tis a terrible affront to Riverrun, but what can men like us do about it? Best to wait it out. All things turn out all right with time. The salmon always returns.'

'That it does,' agreed Grey Whiskers as he lit his pipe and took a deep drag on the bowl.

'All I knows is a man isn't safe between here and The Twins, not if he's a Tully man.'

Grendle opened one eye and spoke up in a conversational tone of voice, 'I heard there was trouble with the Bolton's too, up at Harrenhal.'

'Trouble everywhere, boy,' said Grey Whiskers sagely, 'Just got to avoid it and stick to your own business.'

'How can I avoid it if you don't tell me what is going on in the land.' Grendle grinned his most mischievous, winning smile at them.

'The boy's right,' laughed one of the men, flicking his long, pale fringe out of his almond shaped eyes, 'talking about what's going on is no crime. It helps a man to avoid the troubled places.'

The old man nodded and leant forward towards Grendle, 'I heard the dog that deserted is dead. The Hound was killed up at Harrenhal and they chopped him into pieces and threw him in a ditch to rot.'

Grendle expressed astonishment, widening his eyes and gripping the table, and then he said, 'Well, that's one less bastard in the world.'

'That's not all, when the news reached the dog's brother he went mad. Tore the man who delivered the news to him into pieces.'

Grendle said, 'I would be upset too if my brother had been murdered.'

The two men and Grey Whiskers burst into laughter and sprayed their dark ales across the room. 'You are stupid ain't ya boy,' said the strawberry blond man, 'the Mountain wasn't sad about his dog brother, only furious he lost the chance to murder him himself.'

'Hmm,' said Grendle, 'I understand. Killers like to kill.'

'That's right, but now the Mountain is sworn to find and kill the ones who robbed him of his chance to slay his little brother and he is riding through these lands searching for witnesses and such like.'

'So, little one, I should avoid mentioning Harrenhal on your journey south,' said Grey Whiskers with a smile, 'in case the Mountain hears you and decides to pull your arms off like a spider.'

'Stop frightening me old man,' said Grendle in a pretend huff. He picked up his belongings and walked out of the inn chased by the sound of their laughter. The strawberry blond man pushed his flopping, sandy fringe out of his eyes and bowed to his companions and followed him.

Grey Whiskers looked to the remaining man and said, 'two strangers joining us for breakfast, these are strange days indeed.'


	26. Chapter 26

Fear is a strange creature. Things that frighten one man leave another unmoved. Sandor remembered a man he had once served with, a tall man called Pasco. He had been a vicious, tough bastard; afraid of no-one. Sandor had watched him bash the brains out of any opponent. He had been born on the iron islands, which was ironic because Pasco was terrified of the sea. He had fled his homeland as soon as he could gather the courage to get on a ship and sail to King's Landing. Once there, he swore he would never get on a boat again. Not in this lifetime. Once you know a man's weakness, Sandor thought, you have power over them. Pasco hated Sandor, took every opportunity to taunt him, antagonise him. Why he had decided to make himself an enemy, Sandor did not know, although it wasn't unusual, everyone hated and feared the Cleagane brothers. When you are afraid of something, you despise it.

His thoughts were back in the past, turning over different memories of battle, of different times he had taken a life. His thoughts were melancholic this morning, he had to leave Sansa sleeping and escape into the woods. Grendle was not back yet from a simple task and although he trusted the boy to return, he couldn't help worrying about him. He anxiety turned into fear and dark, morbid thoughts. His mind circled around the murders he had committed. He took each death that he remembered and held it up to the light and examined it like a jewel, trying to glean some knowledge from it. Something to help him in this death task he was about to attempt; travelling beyond the wall.

So, how had he killed Pasco? One evening Sandor had been sat in a brothel, drinking wine and watching the women twining themselves into some erotic contortions. No man spoke to him. He had no friends. Pasco had stumbled in, already pissed out of his mind. He had fixed his watery green eyes upon the Hound and decided to have some fun with him. Standing over him, Pasco began to insult him and point out his deformities. The Hound had ignored him for a while; he was just an annoying fly buzzing around a dog. Then the ignorant twat had lent forward and touched his face. Just a fleeting touch, it hardly registered but the Hound had felt a deep hatred rise in his gut and he had punched Pasco straight in the face, knocking him unconscious. What he did next was revolting, it was cruel and he wondered how he could even let Sansa stand near him when things like this were blackening his soul. I am evil, the Hound thought, I am a killer.

He had taken the unconscious iron born son of a bitch and gone to the docks. He had slung him over his shoulder, a dark haze of anger and hatred had blurred all his thoughts. His only desire was vengeance against this person who had insulted him. Pasco hung there limply; he stank of the mackerel he had eaten for his last supper. The Hound had felt no shred of mercy as he had tied him into a shallow rowing boat. He waited for Pasco to wake up and then the Hound had leant his massive torso over him so their faces were nearly touching.

'Know where you are, you bastard?'

Pasco became aware of the ropes and the gentle toss and movement of the waves. He began to frantically move his limbs to loosen the fastenings, but it was no good, he was tired securely. He began to beg in a panic filled voice. 'Mercy, mercy Clegane, I beg you.'

'No mercy,' the Hound frowned at him, 'didn't your mother teach you not to tease a dog?'

Then he stabbed him in the stomach, a wound designed to kill him slowly, days would pass in sluggish agony. In his personal hell, floating in that wooden boat, Pasco's life blood would slowly fill his gut. Pain and torture were guaranteed. The dying man's eyes had filled with tears and he had closed them, a look of utter terror affixed upon his iron born features. The Hound had felt nothing, no remorse, nothing except satisfaction as he kicked the boat out into the bay and watched the tide take it.

The huge man was stood in the gloom of the trees, just behind the cottage, as these dark thoughts filled his mind. The others slept deeply, all relying on him to make decisions. They could sleep because he, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, the ruthless killer made them feel safe. They had cast their lot in with a murderer to lead them to safety and the only place he could think of that was out of the reach of all of the bastard Lords who desired to have Sansa, was beyond the wall. He hadn't thought of Pasco since the day he had killed him but tonight the shadows of the dead were visiting him. Their thin and fragile shades surrounded him. Each man or woman he had killed reared up in his mind. Most were ordered by his lion masters, but some he had killed for the pleasure of it. Or because he had felt the person deserved death, yet who was I to decide such a thing, he thought.

Now, when he thought of Sansa's trust in him, how she let him touch her and sleep next to her, how she loved him for his flaws as well as his tenderness, he felt deeply unworthy of her love. Sandor was terrified that she would realise her mistake and want to escape from him. His fear was losing Sansa and it was his weakness, the chink in his armour, the killing point. Fire paled into insignificance compared to losing her love and companionship. The huge man bowed his head as he battled with his fears, with his remorse for his past acts. He prayed to every God there was that there wouldn't be a reckoning for what he had done, for the lives he had offered up to satisfy his fraternal hatred. The world is a bloody battle, he thought, but Sansa is my peace and happiness. He had to keep her safe. There could be no ambushes that led to Harrenhal this time. No one could be allowed to come near them. He would slaughter anyone who came close to Sansa or the boy.

The boy trusted him as well, with a simple devotion, following him without question because he had rescued him from his hell of a home. The Hound clenched his fists as he thought about how he wished someone had rescued him when he was a boy. His life had been a violent hell. He had escaped but only with more killing, more blood. No peace, until he held Sansa.

Sandor knew that he owed his only happiness to Grendle and that was why he had agreed to let him come with them. Not only that, he was bloody handy with a knife and knew how to look after Stranger. He also did as he was told. He had smoked and prepared all of that damn fish with only a smattering of cheek. Then he had happily set off the following morning to the closest village to fetch news, wine and some heavy leather straps to fix the Hound's armour. The Hound had to admit that he liked his company too. Grendle was the first child he had ever been interested in. Joffrey had been a stupid, cowardly fool. In comparison Grendle was a bloody genius. His rescue of Sansa had been audacious and brilliant. Even as the Hound thought about it a smile turned up the corners of his ruined mouth. Grendle was a useful little sod to have around but he could fuck off with that Squire nonsense. Where was he though? The Hound squinted into the gloom but no Grendle appeared. He should have been here hours ago, he thought and dark fear settled in him like ice. Don't punish me for my past sins, he prayed to the Seven gods and the old, the ones that he didn't even believe in.

* * *

'Wake up Sansa,' the Hound picked her up wrapped in the blanket and kissed her face, 'the sun will be rising soon so we must leave now. Come, say your goodbyes to the old woman.'

The redheaded young woman rubbed her eyes sleepily and tried to kiss his mouth but he smiled crookedly and pulled away. 'No time, never enough time, is there little bird? One day we will have a real bed to lie in for days, I promise. Now, get dressed and gather your things.'

Sansa watched him climb down the ladder. The light was thin, the sun was nearly here. She stood, unsteadily and dressed as a boy. It made sense to keep the disguise for now. Grendle had offered to hack her hair again with fingers that smelt like trout but the Hound had growled at him to bugger off. Sandor had taken Sansa into the stable and sat her on a wooden bench. He took the knife and kissed her for a long time before he began to cut her hair. His fingers had been so gentle. He stroked every inch of her scalp and down her neck. Between each strand of hair he trimmed he kissed her and whispered how beautiful she was. Sansa had closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of his long fingers as they massaged her skin, the warmth of his breath as he spoke sweet words in his deep, grumbling tone. When he placed both rough skinned hands on to her soft, slim shoulders, it made her aware of how huge he was, how small she was in comparison. With him close by she felt safe. It made her desire to lean into his body and just melt into his embrace for days but reality had required them to stand up and get on with their tasks, preparing for the long journey north.

And now they were leaving. Sansa could hear the horse being led into the yard and knew Sandor was attaching all of their packs to Stranger. They were going to walk, 'For now,' the Hound had said, 'until we have a better plan.'

She followed him into the yard. Pearl was moving about like a fluttering insect, not resting on one place for more than a second. She was speaking softly to Sandor and Sansa moved closer to join them.

'Is Grendle not returned yet?' Sansa heard Pearl asking him. They had expected him back the previous evening. Sansa had been keen to show off her new knowledge of herbs and flower remedies by brewing him a soothing tea to rest him after his journey but he hadn't appeared. The Hound had been jolly, drinking different fruit wines and telling them not to worry about the daft little sod. But Sansa knew him well enough now to know that he too was anxious.

Now the horse was ready, their packs were stowed and the Hound had cut Sansa a long elm stick to help her walk through the trees, 'or bash any bugger that comes near you with it.'

Then they ran out of things to say to each other, the fear dried their tongues and they stood in the gloom waiting for Grendle.


	27. Chapter 27

It had taken hours to give the bastard the slip. Grendle looked down at the dead man and kicked him hard in his dead ribs. 'You bastard,' he said, 'causing me all this bloody trouble.' Then Grendle searched the body and removed all his coin and blades. There was a folded parchment that he could not read, but he pushed it into his jacket next to his map. Then he stood up and looked down at the strawberry blond man and he kicked dirt and leaves over his freckled face and looked up. The sun was just lightening the sky, it was nearly morning. He had to get back to the cottage before they left. Not that he couldn't track them, he could track anyone, but he wanted the Hound to be pleased with him and, 'get back on bloody time.'

Grendle took one last look at the man he had just killed and shook his head in annoyance. Then he booted the corpse into the fast-flowing river and watched it disappear. What a waste of fucking time, he thought angrily. The trip into the village had started well. Grendle had arrived before breakfast and got a few things. Headed to the inn to eat and buy wine. Had gathered news, as requested by the grumpy old dog. He had just brought the leather from the saddler when he had noticed the sandy haired man lingering around the outside of the shop. Grendle might be small but he had a gift for sensing danger. He hadn't liked the fellow when they had breakfasted together and now seeing him in the outside air it just heightened Grendle's feeling of disquiet. Years of being beaten had taught him to sense a person's intention and this sandy haired man was radiating tension and excitement. Grendle threw a few coins on the counter and picked up his purchase. Then he asked the saddler man if he could use his outhouse. The man smiled and nodded, pointing to the open door at the back of the shop. Grendle scampered smartly past the outhouse and over the hedge that formed the boundary of the garden. He glanced back and saw Sandyman was pushing the saddler out of the way and rushing into the garden. Grendle ran. He dashed back around to the main street of the village, avoiding any people and swerving to move out of the way of a huge grey warhorse that was clattering to a halt next to the saddler's shop. The massive man sat astride the horse was bellowing at the blacksmith across the way to fetch his horse and fix his shoe. He didn't notice the boy weaving between the horse and cobbles. By the time Sandyman came running onto the street, the massive man had stomped into the saddler's shop. Grendle risked a look back to see where his pursuer was. Sandyman hadn't given up the chase yet, but was galloping around the houses and shops looking for him. Grendle hid in the thatch that covered the inn, hiding beneath one of the thick eaves, watching the massive man lumbering back into the street and nearly colliding with Sandyman who gesticulated wildly around himself, obviously explaining how he had lost the boy. Who the fuck are they? Grendle wondered.

He had waited in the pigeon shit encrusted thatch for hours, waited until the street was deserted and the warhorse had galloped violently towards the ferry. The massive man had sworn at some fishermen in his way and walloped one of them with his sword. The man had crumpled to the floor like a disgarded set of clothes. The angle of his neck showed he would not be getting up again. Grendle shivered as he watched the horse trot onto the ferry boat and the threatening man headed for the other side. Grendle felt stiff and cramped. His legs and arms were numb from crouching on the thatch. He moved each limb slowly, trying to get the blood to flow into them and cursing silently about the cramps that shot up his calves. Then he lowered himself onto the cobbles and brushed himself down. He glanced at the sun. Late afternoon and he was supposed to be back at the cottage by now. Grendle hurried towards the bridlepath that led out of the village and into the woods. He kept glancing around for Sandyman but it seemed to be completely deserted. He had to take risk and head back. Grendle knew the Hound would leave when he said he would. There was no chance he would wait for Grendle.

It took a mile or two to realise he was being followed. By someone with a certain amount of skill too, as it was only the tiniest crack of a twig that gave them away, but Grendle had ears like a bat and he heard it. Grendle melted into the shadow of an oak and lowered himself to the floor. He slid down into a gully and waited for his pursuer to catch up. He pulled his dagger and prepared himself to kill this person who was following him. He tested the blade on the edge of tongue and felt the sharpness, the tang of blood that followed. Grendle remembered his few happy years with his mother and he imagined his grandmother's voice telling him how to disappear in the wilderness, 'you are one of the free folk, you have it in your blood. Listen to what the birds are saying.'

Grendle listened. A jay was squawking to his right, something was alarming it. Grendle rolled over to look up the gully and saw the shadow of a man high above on the bank. The person was crouching and creeping along. Grendle didn't know wether to run or attack. He lay there as still as a hare. Wait, he heard the Hound's voice in his head, never attack first…let them make the first move, the first mistake. Grendle waited.

The person carried along through the trees. As he passed him, Grendle saw the flash of pale hair and knew it was Sandyman. He ground his teeth in annoyance. This bastard wasn't giving up. Grendle decided to lead him away from Sansa and Sandor so he loudly climbed out of the gully and scampered east, stamping on every twig he could and coughing like an old man. It worked. Sandyman began to follow him and they began a chase. The pale haired one was doggedly determined and Grendle had to work hard to stay ahead. They ran on and through the night hours until Grendle reached a river he couldn't cross. He shimmied up the trunk of a beech tree and waited for his enemy to arrive. It wasn't long. Sandyman was out of breath and panicked to lose the boy's trail. He began to pace the riverbank, cursing and muttering. Grendle wanted to speak to him, find out what he knew, but that would ruin his only advantage. Instead he dropped like a silent assassin out of the tree behind Sandyman. He crouched, quiet as a fox waiting to attack. It only took a cut to each tendon in his legs to fell him. Then he had plenty of time to boot him in the face and stab him in the heart. The pale haired man screamed obscenities at him. 'You fucking little bastard, I described you to him. He knows what you look like. He will be looking for you, you little fucker, just you wait, just you…' Grendle didn't wait. There is a time to wait and a time to kill, he thought, just like the Hound says.


	28. Chapter 28

Pearl handed Sansa a little brown goat on a lead, 'Take him with you, alive, and slaughter him when you run out of food, that way the meat won't go rancid.'

The Hound grunted in acknowledgment of her good sense, 'We appreciate all you have done for us, old woman, we are in your debt.'

'Nonsense Sandor, it was my pleasure, you own me nothing. I have enjoyed spending time with you all. I will miss you.'

The Hound reached out and put his hand on Pearl's shoulder. He smiled and said, 'Here I felt happy. It felt like a home. We won't forget you.'

Sansa ran forward and pulled Pearl into a hug. The two women held each other for a long time before they let go. They didn't need to say anything; they had already said everything in the herb room. Sansa bent down to caress the goat who bleated mournfully, 'Won't he give us away Sandor, if we are trying to go silently?'

'Aye, but we will kill him before we go too far.'

'So we should leave now, without Grendle?' Sansa looked pale and worried, her eyes massive in her thin face.

The Hound nodded, 'He will catch up no doubt, can't get rid of a little bugger like him.'

'Don't worry my dear, if he comes here I will send him on his way.' Pearl gently stroked the length of her grey hair, which hung long to her waist, not braided at this early hour of the morning. It made her look ethereal and insubstantial in the gossamer strands of dawn.

Sansa checked her leather tunic was belted on right and adjusted her boots one last time. She held the wooden staff in one hand the goat lead in the other. The Hound led Stranger to the edge of the trees and then he looked back over his shoulder, 'Perhaps one day we shall meet again old woman.'

'In the next life perhaps. I am not long for this life; I can feel it in my bones.'

Sansa sobbed then, she couldn't help herself, but she walked after the Hound with careful steps. Her leather pack was full of every kind of herb and remedy she could carry. Pearl smiled at them as they walked into the darkness of the trees, 'You brought light into this cottage,' she called after them, 'don't let fear overwhelm you, stay hopeful and look after Grendle.'

Sansa looked back one last time, 'We will, I promise.'

The Hound's rough voice slipped from between the tree trunks, 'I told you both, Grendle can look after himself.'

* * *

They walked through the woodland without talking, both of them were thinking about the road ahead of them. Sansa had no idea what the Hound intended. He seemed angry, his face was grim so she didn't question him, just followed the path he was taking through the trees. It was rough walking, with twisted tree roots and uneven ground. It took them a long time to walk a short distance. Eventually they stepped out onto grassland and hedgerows, their eyes blinking in the midday sun.

'That's the end of protection from the trees,' said the Hound, 'now we travel out in the open.'

'Should we eat here, in the shelter of the woods, before we go on?'

'Yes, little bird, let's eat a small meal and then we must keep going. We have to cross the river that flows beyond that hill.'

'And then where do we go.' Sansa began to pull bread and fish from the pack on Stranger's saddle. The horse snickered at her but he didn't attempt to bite her. She stroked his black flank and enjoyed the warmth of his hide. It was a sunny day but there was an unmistakable chill in the air. Sansa handed some food to Sandor who sat with his back against a tree trunk.

'If we followed the river east,' he said, 'we would get to Riverrun but we must go north, to the coast. Then I hope to get a boat that will take us further north. If not we must walk the coastal path and hope to the god's we don't get caught by the men of Seagard.'

'Can we do this?' Sansa slumped next to him, nibbling on a crust without any real desire to eat.

'Yes, I know we can do this.' He angrily chomped on his food, eating it as fast as could.

'How can you be so sure?'

'I survived five arrows that should have killed me. You survived the dungeons of Harrenhal. A walk north is easy compared to what we have lived through.'

'It's not the walking I am afraid of. It is the people that want to kill us.'

The Hound stood up and towered over her. He looked immense and terrifying. 'I will kill them all Sansa, before they kill you.'

She looked into his dark eyes and she believed him.

* * *

The river was wide and fast flowing. It swirled below a steep bank. 'How can we get across that?' Sansa asked in horror.

'We shall swim across.'

'But, that's impossible…I can't swim.'

The Hound turned to look at her with an annoyed look, 'You can't swim? Damn girl, what were you doing when you were a child?'

Sansa glared at him, 'All the pools were frozen where I lived.'

The Hound barked with laughter, 'Aye, of course they were. I'm a fucking fool.'

'You are not a fool, don't say that. Rude and angry but not a fool.'

He laughed and pulled her into an embrace, kissed her with his lips that were full and soft on one side and hard and demanding on the other. Like every other time they had kissed Sansa forgot all her anxieties, blacked out all her problems and just felt the ice of her nature thaw into hot syrup, thick and sensuous as honey in the dexterous hands of the Hound.

Eventually he let her go and they both stood there awkward with lust, whilst the river gushed below them.

'If we cross, Grendle will not be able to track us; please can we wait here for an hour or two.' She pointed to a part of the bank where the horse could walk down and there were rocks and bushes to shelter in from prying eyes. 'Come,' she said and took his huge hand to lead him there. Sandor followed her; his mind was unfocused, only thinking of the taste of her skin, the hardness of his cock in his breeches and his desire to be inside her. Sansa tied the goat to a spiny bush and let Stranger graze the grass on the bank. Then she sat down in a sheltered spot that caught the sun and looked at the Hound as she unbuttoned her jacket to bare her breasts. He groaned softly under his breath, 'You're right Sansa. It wouldn't hurt to linger here a while,' he said, 'give the boy a chance to find us.'


	29. Chapter 29

Sansa could not believe how brazen she was being with him. She felt a steely determination to bend him to her will, to force him to lower his cautionary nature for a moment and make love to her in the open air, by the side of the river that led to her mother's childhood home. Her kind, nagging mother who was now dead, murdered by men who plotted and conspired to rule, she was turned to ash or buried in the mud somewhere. Dead things were cold whereas the Hound's skin would feel hot. His mouth would be warm and she wanted his mouth on her skin now. Sansa lifted one slim hand and caressed her own chest. She watched as the Hound stumbled down the bank and knelt down beside her.

'Sansa, this is not safe. We should wait.'

She smiled at him, at his befuddled confusion and his obvious desire at the sight of her twisting her own nipple in her fingers. 'Kiss me here,' she said, stroking the curve of her white breast and lying back on the floor. He groaned loudly as he lowered his mouth to her chest. Sansa closed her eyes and put her hands on his head. She stroked his hair and his scarred skin, ran her fingers down his neck to his shoulders as she enjoyed the feeling of him licking and suckling on her breasts. He was shaking and his hands were pulling at her breeches. She could feel his manhood hard against her hip and she pushed against it, hearing him moan in response. Sansa stretched like a cat, enjoying her power over him.

'Kiss me here,' she said, pointing to her stomach but he gave her a little shake.

'No more kissing, I'm going to fuck you now.'

Sansa pouted and said, 'No, I want you to kiss me.'

He looked at her, held her still beneath him and fixed her with a stern expression, 'you tempt me too much,' he said, 'I'm going to take you now, exactly how I want to.'

Sansa tried to move but she was trapped beneath the bulk of him. She realised she was completely at his mercy. His eyes were liquid, dark pools of lust. His mouth was wet from where he had been suckling on her and he gripped her tightly so she felt every muscle of his body hard against her. Sansa's mouth opened slightly as she felt a thrill of desire consume her. It made every inch of her body feel heavy and it centred in her groin; a heavy ache and throb in her woman's place.

'I'm sorry I teased you.' She tried to kiss his mouth but he pulled away. His fingers were kneading her breasts and she squirmed beneath him, trying to get him to press against her aching womanhood.

'If you tease a dog, you get bitten,' growled the Hound and he bit her firmly on the shoulder and at the same time slipped his hand beneath her breeches and pulled them off her and put his fingers inside her. Sansa moaned; how good it felt, the little bit of pain with the glorious feeling of his huge fingers touching her there. She moved to make him slip deeper inside and she felt the wetness, hot and silken, as he slid in and out of her.

* * *

Oh, he thought, it is always too sweet, too sweet for an old dog like me. He rubbed her hard nub of flesh whilst he gently bit her neck, her breasts. Licking and suckling her nipples he kept rubbing her cunt and she began to pant faster beneath him, she made the fucking sexiest sounds but he said, 'quietly, quietly or we will get caught,' and he kissed her on the mouth to shut her up as she came in his hand. Before she had time to luxuriate in it he turned her over and pulled her onto her knees. He admired the white flesh of her body and squeezed her arse as he knelt behind her and pushed his cock against her. She gasped and he steadied her with one hand beneath her chest.

Then he slid himself inside her with a silent curse of appreciation for how fucking good she felt, like she was made to fit him, perfect. So unbelievably perfect. Fucking her this way reminded him of the first time he had taken her by the river and he was full of sentiment and lust. The flowing water, the danger, her round arse meeting his as he thrust into her. The little soft moans she made as she tried to be quiet but her quivering body and the way she clasped his hands told him how much she liked it. Sandor pulled out of her and she gasped. 'Do you want me to carry on, little bird?'

She looked over her shoulder at him, her big blue eyes hazy and soft, 'Oh yes please,' she said and smiled.


	30. Chapter 30

Grendle stood on the edge of the bank looking down at Sansa asleep in Sandor's arms. The big man had his eyes closed but his hand was holding the hilt of his sword; ready to kill any one who disturbed them. Grendle gathered a handful of grass and sprinkled it down on the pair of them. It was comically funny to watch the Hound spring up waving his blade and looking for his attacker. Eventually he glanced up and saw Grendle who was standing with his arms folded and his eyebrows raised, 'it's alright,' the boy said, 'you just nap and I'll kill all the people who are following us.'

The Hound grimaced and ran up the bank faster and more gracefully than the boy had imagined. Grendle had to run and weave to avoid his outstretched arms. With an angry lunge the Hound grabbed hold of his shoulder and pulled him to halt.

'I don't know if I want to throttle you or hug you,' he barked, shaking him hard, 'Grendle you are the most infuriating creature I have met in the Seven Kingdoms.'

'Well, you haven't been beyond the wall yet so there is still time to meet someone more annoying then me.'

'What the hells happened to you? Why were you delayed?'

'Are you alright? Are you hurt?' Sansa pulled him from the Hound's embrace and hugged him, checking his face and body for wounds.

'I'm fine, get off the pair of you,' Grendle took a step back and puffed out his skinny little chest, 'stop fussing.'

Sansa smiled at him and kissed him on the forehead which he huffed about but she ignored him. Then they stood there, looking at each other.

'So, tell me quickly what happened, we have to get away from here.'

'There is a man fishing back the way I came, he has a boat. Stranger would have to swim. Why is there a goat down there?'

'Grendle, what the fuck happened to you?' the Hound shouted in exasperation.

'Got the supplies. Your brother is pissed off you were murdered because he wanted to kill you. He is looking for the people who killed you so he can kill them. Someone followed me. I killed him.'

Sansa gasped in shock and then looked at the Hound in concern. His face was grim and expressionless. He resembled a carved stone figure. She moved to touch his arm but he walked away from her.

'What's the matter?' Grendle went to go after Sandor but Sansa shook her head.

'Leave him Grendle, he is very upset about his brother.'

'His brother sounds like an utter bastard, he's not worth worrying about.'

'His brother is called the Mountain that rides. He is known for being a very evil personage. You speak casually of something you do not understand. Gregor is a killing machine who would not think twice about slaying all of us… and talking of killing young man, why are you so intent on committing murder? I am shocked and disappointed with you Grendle. You are a child; you should not be taking a life in such a casual manner.'

'Sansa I had to kill him, or he would have killed me.' Grendle glared at her, 'and I am not a child. I am nearly twelve.'

'Well you are old enough then to be more careful. You should not get yourself into situations that need resolving with death.'

'Why are you telling me off? I did it to help you.' Grendle slumped and kicked the ground with his foot.

'Oh my dear Grendle, don't you understand? I was only cross with you because I was most afraid these long hours that something had happened to you.' Then she hugged him again and he didn't protest this time.

Sandor stamped over, 'Grendle, this boat. How far is it?'

'A mile West.'

'Let's go.' The Hound marched down and got Stranger, 'keep up you two, we must flee the Riverlands.'

Sansa and Grendle gathered their things and the pair of them had to trot to keep up with the angry figure of the Hound. Sansa dragged the little goat behind her and it bleated in a most dejected manner.

They saw the boat floating in the river water and the fisherman was sat on the bank. Sansa watched in horror as the Hound ran ahead and killed the man with one blow of his sword.

'No,' she screamed, 'what have you done? He hadn't hurt us.'

Sandor turned to look at her, a hard look on his face, 'what would you have suggested? Pay him for his boat, I have enough gold. Then what? Let him return to his village and report that I am alive? Sansa you have to trust me. I will not kill for enjoyment but I will kill to keep us safe. Now get in the boat.'

Sansa was shaking. She looked at the corpse of the fisherman. He was only young.

Grendle took her hand and pulled her toward the boat, 'Sansa focus on getting to the wall, don't think about it. Remember, stick your shoulders back and act like a boy.'

Sansa laughed hysterically though her anger and fear. She thought back to when she had stepped out of the tower at Harrenhal and walked past those guards. She remembered how she had killed Trent so she could escape. I have to be brave, she thought, kill or be killed. She mentally pulled herself together and hardened her resolve. Sansa had known they were in danger- that Littlefinger was searching for her and Bolton probably knew she had survived Harrenhal and wanted her dead but now that Gregor Clegane was seeking them she felt a deep horror. She could sense how shocked Sandor was. It was making him brutal and determined. Half of her was heartbroken to see him like that whilst the other half of her felt safe, almost thrilled to see him stride around like an angry bear. If she had to be anywhere in this bloody, terrible land, she wanted to be with him.

'Hurry,' Sandor snapped as they stared at the dead body, 'no time to stand there. He'll still be dead however long you look at him. '

Sansa and Grendle jerkily lowered themselves in with the goat and the supplies. The Hound tied a rope to the boat and slung the other end on to his pommel and rode Stranger into the flowing river water. The strong horse began to swim across the current dragging the little boat behind him. It took a few minutes to find a part of the bank on the other side to pull the boat onto but the Hound jumped off the horse and wrenched it on to the land. Then they all got out and watched as Sandor kicked the wooden boat back into the river and it floated away like a brown leaf.

'Now, we make for the coast to get on a ship north.' The Hound marched off leading the dripping war horse.

Grendle galloped next to him like a capering pony, 'Aye, Ser Sandor.'

The Hound barked with laughter, 'just this once, I won't belt you for that but only because I am bloody glad you didn't get killed by my fucking brother. Now tell me every detail as we walk.' His spirits were lifted now they had crossed the river and Gregor was hopefully on the other side. The Hound took a drag on a skin of wine and enjoyed the warmth of it. He looked back at his wife who was trying to encourage the stupid goat along, 'give our dinner a kick in the arse, my pretty bird. We will march and then eat when the sun sets. We will make it to the docks by evening. Can you smell the salt in the air?'

Sansa couldn't smell anything apart from disgruntled goat.


	31. Chapter 31

The small ship pitched and tossed in the violent waves. Each plume of water was tipped with a cascade of white foam. The crests looked like clawed fingers reaching out to grab the flimsy wooden craft. Grendle leant on to the ship's side and vomited into the rolling, plunging water. His groans were audible above the roar of the ocean.

Sandor watched him from where he was huddled on a soaked bench holding on to Sansa. Was this buggering nightmare worth it? Three days they had been buffeted by nature's anger. He gritted his teeth and tried to control his own feelings of nausea. He gripped his wife and felt reassured by the scent of lavender that scented her short, red hair. They were both covered in spray and soaked to the bone, cold and miserable. He stared out into the grey-blue sea that raged around them. Northward was covered in a thick bank of dirty clouds and that was the damned place they were heading to. Sandor shook his head; was this journey a mistake? He knew what Sansa would say if he mentioned his concerns, she would say in her sensible, dutiful voice: there's no point thinking like that, the decision has been made. But it was his choice to lead them this way. He had fixed his mind on the ice and cold of the northern lands and refused to alter his mental compass. Grendle, once he had set his eyes on the grimy coastal town and the broken looking ships in the harbour, immediately suggested turning back South again and crossing the narrow sea rather than this iron chilled wetness. Sansa had been invigorated by the cold snap in the air, the memory of Winterfell raising goosebumps on her flesh.

It hadn't taken long to book passage on a ship, but it had taken all of the Hound's gold. Sansa and Grendle had come up with an amusing disguise for Sandor. They had dressed him in a woollen robe belonging to a Septon. Grendle had 'borrowed' the robe after he had discovered the Septon drunk on plum wine in the back room of the stinking inn that sat like a vulture on the edge of the dock. The hood covered his scarred face and he stooped with a stick to disguise his height and bulk. Sandor had to admit it was a good disguise and he enjoyed moving through the town without provoking shocked looks of fear, the usual reation people had to him.

Now he looked like a Septon with two young boys accompanying him, 'on a pilgrimage to save the souls of the northern savages who prayed to the old Gods.' That's what Sansa had told the men at the dock whilst Sandor leant on her elm stick and muttered garbled prayers to the Seven gods loud enough for the sailors to step back from his obvious religious mania.

There were not many ships to choose from. Most had seen better days and all of the captains were reluctant to sail north. They tried to persuade them to head south back to the safety of Lannisport. Sansa had nearly choked when they wizened old captain had said that to her but she kept her head and acted like a young acolyte and explained why they had to save northern souls. In the end it was the bag of gold that brought them passage north.

They had to persuade the captain to empty out his only storage room to board Stranger. The last of their gold made sure he let the horse onto his shambolic wooden ship. The horse had balked when Sansa led him onto the boarding plank but the bond he felt with the Hound who already stood on the ship was greater than his animal fears and he walked on. Sandor was relieved that the black horse could continue with him on this journey. He had mentally prepared himself to sell Stranger once they had reached the port but Sansa had refused to part with the animal. Her sentiment matched his own but Sandor was not going to admit it out loud.

Grendle was shaking and full of fear when he stepped on to the ship in the thick morning mist. The Hound had been concerned he might turn tail and flee back on to dry land. The Captain was chuckling about the landlubbers and sharing jokes with his iron born crew. The waves were already rough and Grendle's face was pale and pointed in the spray like a wet fox. The three of them did not speak, just huddled on the deck and tried to meditate their anxiety and sickness away. Each longed for a quick and safe journey.

Sandor, hiding beneath his robes that smelt sour with old wine, enjoyed the feeling of Sansa pressed against him. Even as they went through this buggering voyage he was glad they were together. He flicked another glance to where Grendle was moaning and clinging to the side of the ship. It was frustrating to not be able to fix the problem so the boy could stop suffering like that. Sandor was used to action. He liked to remove any obstacle in his path with a decisive stab of a dagger or sweep of his sword. This rolling, icy sea was impossible to control and soon they would be in a hostile land of snow and wildlings. The only flame of hope that kept him warm was the thought that Littlefinger and Gregor would never look for them beyond the wall. This was the route to safety because he could handle wildlings or goblins or whatever godforsaken creatures lingered behind the wall. They weren't terrifying, not compared to the evil cunning of Littlefinger and his mysterious plans for Sansa or the deep hearted hated that Gregor held for him. Sandor shuddered when he thought of Gregor, always the memory of the coals burning into his face felt as vivid as the day it happened, and Sansa leaned into him whispering something about love but her words were lost in the sea spray.

When they thought they could not stand it a moment longer - Grendle was ready to throw himself into the swell to end his feeling of sickness, the ship rounded a headland and headed into a wide bay to land the ship.

'That's Seadragon Point,' the Captain said to Sansa as she moved to the prow to watch the land come into view. The Captain glanced at the figure stood next to him. The cropped red hair and breeches did little to disguise the swell of her hips and curve of her thighs. The Captain sighed to himself. If he were younger he would throw the old priest and the little lad overboard and take this willowy sapling below decks and have her. But he was an old man now and gold meant more to him than lovemaking. The young woman turned her beautiful blue eyes to his and said, 'How far inland is Deepwood Motte?'

The Captain looked at her with deeper respect. The sea had stilled and the volume of the waves had ceased. The Captain could discern the quality of her accent and upbringing now. 'The seat of the Glover's is not far, half a day's walk maybe, longer if your lad is till sick.'

'What news of the North?' Sansa stared into the grey eyes of the captain holding his attention, 'what news can you give me Ser?'

'Is that where you are headed? Deepwood Motte has fallen to the Greyjoy's. We only passed through these waters because I am iron born, although I have no damn interest in politics or war. The Greyjoy's rule these seas and they want to rule the land too but mark my words it will only bode ill. Ruling lands won't make a man happy. Only gold.' The Captain took a gold coin from his pocket and held it up to illustrate his point.

'If we cannot head there to spread the good news of the Seven Gods where would you advise?' Sansa longed to ask about Winterfell but she dared not.

The Captain pursed his lips and studied her face, her auburn hair and high cheekbones, 'Where are you from? You look like a Tully girl. You aint going to like the lands up here. A waterlily don't grow in the snow.'

Sansa gasped internally but she regained her composure, 'You are mistaken Ser Captain, I am no Tully. I am a bastard born girl from the Riverlands, that is true, but in the eyes of the Seven I am equal to any high born girl. Our mission is saving souls. The priest is a not lowly priest but a high Septon. Yet he is ill and he needs us to help him spread the word of the Seven. You will be blessed if you advise and help us.'

The Captain just stared at her and Sansa thought she heard the Hound's gruff voice in her ear saying, 'kill him Sansa, tip him overboard with a knife in his belly, he is a danger to us now' but Sansa resisted that dark, inner monologue despite the sense inherent in it. No, she would not kill people who happened to be in their way, there must be another solution. Finally the Captain said, 'The North is full of danger. My advise would be to sail South. For another bag of gold, if you have it?'

Sandor hobbled to where they were standing, he looked exactly like a crippled old priest. He muttered to Sansa and she bent to speak with him.

'What does the old sea bastard say to you?'

'He advises us to go South. He said I looked like a Tully.'

Sandor growled, 'He needs to die then.'

Sansa smiled at him. The Hound looked at her from beneath the cloak, 'What's so funny?'

'Nothing,' she whispered, 'I just knew you would say that. No killing. Just let me finish speaking to him.'

Sansa turned to where the old Captain stood waiting. 'Ser you are honoured. The High Septon, priest of lost souls says he will bless you and your vessel in gratitude for helping us.'

The Captain began to laugh like a seal but Sansa held out her palm flat with a glistening white jewel sat on it, 'This is a sea stone. Keep it on you at all times and you will be safe from any dangers.'

The Captain looked in total awe of the small, iridescent stone and he reached out a trembling hand for it, 'Thank you,' he murmured. The Captain's whole demeanor of hostility and disrespect had vanished, to be replaced by one of humility. He sank to his knees and kissed Sandor's robe. The big man reached out and placed his hand on to the sea captain's head, 'The power of the sea stone will break if aught is mentioned of us or our mission. We will only succeed in secrecy,' he intoned in what he hoped was a religious type of voice, 'There are many who would stop the spread of the Seven. Are you standing in the light of the Seven?'

'I am,' the Captain said in a muffled voice, 'I have seen the light of the Seven. Let me return your gold to you and escort you safely from the ship.'

Sandor shuffled off the deck and down the boarding plank whilst the captain shouted orders to his men to get their supplies and the horse. Sansa helped Grendle who was suffused in misery and the three of them headed into the rough collection of houses that made up the port. The Captain called after them, 'May you travel in safety my friends,' and the held up his hand with the sea stone winking inside it, a glint of light in the grey sky.

When they turned a corner and were alone Sandor straightened up and said in a fierce voice, 'Sansa tell me what the hells just happened?'

'Sea stones. The iron born think they have the capacity to preserve a piece of their life inside one. I know about them from bedtime tales. I wasn't sure if it was true or he would recognise them but it was worth a try.'

'A try?' The Hound repeated in confusion, 'You didn't know if it would work but you just thought you would try?'

'Yes, my husband, it was worth it and if it didn't work I would have done this.' With a fluid and lithe movement Sansa pressed the tip of her ornate dagger into the Hound's belly.

He flinched in surprise. He grabbed her hands and pulled her closer, forcing her to drop the dagger. 'What is a fucking sea stone?'

'Just a jewel that glows with the light of life inside it, ' Sansa smiled, 'Remember what the Greyjoy's words are?'

Sandor shook his head in annoyance, 'I didn't pay attention to my lessons as a child, Sansa, I was too busy trying to avoid getting beaten by Gregor.'

'What is dead may never die. The iron born think they are dead inside so the myth of the sea stone is precious to them. The stone holds a sliver of life inside it.'

'It does? Where did you get one from?'

'No, of course it doesn't,' Sansa laughed, 'It's just a stone that happens to reflect the light. Maybe there once was a sea stone, but then there used to be dragons. Much that was wondrous in this world is lost.'

Sandor gave her a little shake, 'What in seven fucking hells did you give the Captain then?'

Sansa ignored his anger and leaned against him so his huge arms were forced to embrace her, 'Grendle gave them to me.' Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of shining white stones.

Grendle looked up from where he was sat with his head between his knees, 'Stole them from a room in Harrenhal, before you growl at me and demand lots of answers to stupid questions. There was a locked room with caskets of cup and plate. Some jewels. I liked the shiny ones so I took them. Then I gave them to Sansa because she deserved something pretty to cheer her up in the Godswood. She had Trent's blood all over her and she was upset. I wondered what you did with them, Sansa.'

'I was keeping them to turn them into a necklace. One day I will wear them with a blue dress and my hair will be long and braided in the most ridiculous style I can manage.'

Sandor began to laugh, 'You two are the bravest pair of fools I have ever met. A knife in the belly is quicker and guaranteed. Shiny fucking stones…who would have thought it. Such quick thinking.'

'Help me up old dog, let's get out of this stinking place and find a cottage somewhere. You can prick as many people in the guts as you like if it means we can sleep in a bed tonight.'

'Grendle!'

'I'm sorry Sansa. I'm only joking. But I do need someone to pull me up. My legs feel like they are made of wet mud.'

The Hound barked with laughter, 'Can't one of the shiny bloody stones magic you to your feet lad?' He ducked the handful of muck Grendle threw at him and pulled the boy up. Then he embraced him and smacked him on the back. 'Still alive,' the Hound said and Grendle grinned.


	32. Chapter 32

The landscape was different; it was more hostile. Gone were the green fields and hedges, the soft flowing streams and gushing, fertile rivers. No longer were they surrounded by woodlands full of beech and whispering aspen. Instead there were windswept moor lands and granite rocks that looked as if they had been flung in an argument between ancient giants. As the three of them trudged inland the bleak headland descended down a gully that was sheltered from the angry winds that blew off the sea, they left behind the haggard trees that grew in twisted storm created shapes. After an hours march the trees thickened and they entered into a forest. Oaks and pine trees grew in huge, gloomy heights. Moss and lichen carpeted the forest floor which gave their steps an uncomfortable silence. No bird song twittered, only the flash of a red squirrel's tail and the cawing of crows. Their feet disturbed the pine needles releasing the scent of the trees.

Sansa had a light step; she walked ahead of the other two. She felt elated to be breathing the chilled air, smelling the fragrance of a northern forest. Home; that's what it was, it smelt like coming home. They had avoided the road from the port that led to Deepwood Motte. Instead, they had skirted the coastal path north and then headed inland through the rough terrain that no sane person would have chosen. Sansa was leading them and her course was taking them south. Towards Winterfell. The Hound didn't comment, he simply let her lead them where she chose. Now they were so close to the wall he had seemed less certain about that path. He still wore the Septon's brown robes over his armour. Not only for the useful disguise it offered but also to battle the cold air that insinuated itself beneath the metal. Grendle was wearing lots of layers of mismatched clothing, including one of Pearl's woollen dresses beneath his coat. They were so used to eccentricities now that neither Sansa nor the Hound commented on it and accepted his explanation that he had brought it as a disguise as completely logical. Grendle seemed to have endless amounts of odd yet useful things in his pack. Sansa was still dressed in her male clothes with a silver, rabbit fur jacket over the top that she had purchased from a sailor. It looked too thin to be of any warmth but she seemed to be oblivious to the cold.

'Why are we going south Sansa?'

Sansa glanced back at Grendle and stopped for a moment to take a swig from her waterskin, 'Because I need to see it for myself.'

'It's not safe to go there.' The Hound said in a matter of fact tone of voice.

'Obviously Sandor,' snapped Sansa, 'but when have we ever done anything that is safe? From the moment we met my life or yours has been in danger.'

The Hound raised his dark eyebrows at her, the scarred half of his face twisting into a grimace but the unsullied half was radiating a look of amusement at her uncharacteristic temper. He stroked Stranger's neck and unhooked his own water skin from his belt and shook some into his palm so the horse could drink.

'We can't get there tonight, we should make camp,' said Grendle cheerfully.

'Aye, the lad's right. We'll talk about it over some dinner.'

Sansa looked longingly in the direction of Winterfell but she turned away and sighed. She threw her pack down and started to look for dry twigs with Grendle chattering to her about his wildling grandmother. They soon had a fire burning and the Hound got out his knife and pan whilst Grendle, serious now, set off into the gloom to get something to cook. He returned with a fat rabbit, a skin of water and a dark expression.

'What is it?' asked Sansa as she took the rabbit from him and passed it to the Hound who immediately cut off the head and feet, and pulled the skin off like the peel from an exotic fruit.

'I don't know. Just felt like there were beasts in the trees watching me.'

'Don't worry Grendle,' the Hound said, 'there's no meat on you.'

Grendle sat down with a slump next to Sandor and shuddered, 'Shut up, I'm serious. There's something out there.'

'You're just not used to these forests. The wind makes the branches creak and it sounds like fell voices.' Sansa leant forward and pulled Grendle towards her. She rubbed his hair off his face and tutted at the layer of grime that covered his skin, 'When was the last time you washed? Come on, show me where you filled that water skin, we need to bathe ourselves.'

Sansa moved towards the fire and set the cooking pan in the embers. She put some dried carrots and beans from her pack into the water and threw in the rabbit flesh. Finally she put some herbs and pepper in and covered it with the lid.

'You wash first, I'll stay with the horse,' the Hound said and settled his back against the tree, 'Grendle you know I'll skin you if Sansa gets hurt.'

'Yes, I know.'

'Sandor, it's not his job to protect me, I can look after myself.'

Standing in the last glow of the setting sun, her red hair aflame and her blue eyes bright with indignation, she looked fierce and beautiful. A true Stark, the Hound thought admiringly.

'You have to bloody well look after each other and come back to me. Those are the rules,' Sandor said, with a twisted smile as he settled his back against a pine tree and closed his eyes to rest. Dusk settled in the trees quickly, it was soon dark and the only light came from the fire. The aroma of the food made his mouth water. He sat up as he heard the swish and movement of people coming through the trees. Sandor gripped his sword, a feeling of uneasiness rising in him as the shadows approached but it was only the two of them. They were fresh faced from washing in an ice cold stream and laughing to be back in the safe circle of the firelight.

They ate out of the pan, each with their own spoon, greedily swallowing the delicious broth. 'Whatever you put in this Sansa,' the Hound said, 'it's the best stew I've eaten in a long time.'

'Thank you. Pearl gave me lessons in herbs and seasonings. She knew so much.'

'We were lucky to meet her. She saved my life when others would have failed.'

'We were lucky. It was a few days of peace.'

'Wasn't peaceful for me filleting all those darn fish,' grumbled Grendle.

'When I make us some dinner with those dried fish I will give you a reward and thank you for all your efforts.' Sansa blew him a kiss and the boy laughed. There was an easy companionship between them. Beyond the fire was darkness and ill portents but here there was friendship and hope.

'So,' the Hound said, 'we are going to Winterfell then?'

Sansa was sat next to him and she leaned into his bulk. He put his arm around her and she felt safe. There was the faint scent of rosemary in his clothes. She looked up at him and said, 'I have to go and see it for myself.'

'I understand Sansa, I do, but I am afraid that there will be dangers there that we may not be able to deal with. What if Bolton's men are there? What if that fucking bastard Littlefinger hopes to recover you there?'

'I think they will be too concerned with their own lives to be thinking about me. They think I'm dead. They definitely think you are dead.'

Grendle said, 'I would like to see Winterfell before we go beyond the wall.'

'That's the other thing, Sandor. Winter is coming. If we think conditions are harsh here, then beyond the wall they are going to be impossible. What if we hide in the one place they won't ever think of?'

'Hide at Winterfell, under the very nose of Bolton and the Greyjoy's? You're mad girl.'

'No, I think it makes sense. They would never expect it.'

'I still want to go beyond the wall,' said Grendle, 'and see wildlings.'

'That's what we are going to do. Stick to the fucking plan. Aye, we'll go to Winterfell and see it, Sansa, if that's what you want, but then we go north away from all the houses and their games.'

Sansa sighed. She felt her plan was safe. Beyond the wall was a frozen nightmare and now she was so close to home she didn't want to leave again. Sandor was only trying to keep them safe, she understood that, but she felt drawn to Winterfell. Perhaps he would change his mind once he had seen it.

Sandor pulled himself up and said, 'I'm going to wash now. Which way was the stream?'

'Follow the pine tress as they descend down a sharp bank then you will come to a clearing. The stream lies at the far side. We didn't cross the clearing though, for fear of being exposed, we skirted the trees.'

'I won't be long little bird. I'll bring Stranger with me so he can drink and I'll take the cooking things to rinse them.' The Hound's huge form towered over them as they passed him the pan and spoons. Then he led the horse and was gone. Both Sansa and Grendle shivered. Without him there it suddenly seemed colder and the dark fingers of the trees seemed to edge nearer.

'Come Grendle, let's get the bedding rolls out and settle ourselves. There's no point sitting here in the cold air.'

'Shall I find some more logs?'

'I don't want you to go anywhere. Sandor may bring some back with him. Stay here where I can see you.'

'Don't fuss Sansa.'

'I'm not worried about you Grendle,' Sansa smiled but her eyes were solemn, 'I'm afraid all of a sudden.'

'He'll be back soon. There's a lot of him to wash.'

Sansa laughed and they shook out the sleeping furs so they could lie down close to each other. Both of them felt exhausted and fear flew away like a bird; sleep drifted over the pair of them like a cloud wiping out all thoughts.

The fire had burnt down to ash and it was dawn. Sansa opened her eyes and felt a moment of panic. Her eyelashes were frosted and there was a forbidding chill in the air. The Hound was there though, he was asleep next to her. He was turned slightly away from her so his neck was exposed. His scars didn't even draw her attention these days, as much a part of him as the freckles that dusted his back, but only she knew about those. Instead her eyes were drawn to the shape of his shoulder where his undershirt had slipped down. The round, hard muscle that formed the top of his arm, the straight bone of his collar that cut across his chest and above, the soft flesh of his neck where his heart beat pulsed – Sansa watched it, the only movement on his body. The steady throb of his heart pushing his blood around his massive frame; such a vulnerable spot and she delighted in staring at it, enjoying looking at him without embarrassment for being so covetous of his body.

She wanted to kiss him there, where the heart was beating. Sansa knew if she placed her hand on his skin he would be hot, his skin was always warm and when they pressed against each other it felt like her flesh melted into his and they became one person. She knew he would smell delicious too; she liked nothing as much as she liked the smell of him. She loved pressing her face against his flesh and breathing in his scent; she felt like a bee drawn to a flower. How he would hate being compared to a flower, she thought to herself. Sansa could hear Grendle snoring quietly behind her and she had to stamp down her desire for her husband, lock it back up in a box inside herself and save it for when they were alone. Perhaps at Winterfell there would be some rooms that were habitable and they could spend some time there, deciding where to go next. And whilst they were deciding she would make love to her husband one hundred times to make up for all the nights she had been so close to him, soaked with desire but unable to touch him how she wanted.


	33. Chapter 33

The Hound was angry. He stamped around the deserted castle throwing out curses at pieces of stone that got in his way, kicking at burnt timbers and bones that lay on the floor. Why had they come to this stupid, fucking castle in the first place? It was the choice of an emotional woman not the choice of a man used to battle and war. Why hadn't he just told her…No, we are not going to Winterfell woman, you are my wife and you will do what I say…Why had he meekly obeyed her like a lovesick fool? It was dangerous here, the risk of being found here was bloody well enormous despite the apparent lack of people. The absence of people was more disquieting than if they had found sellswords and ironborn men here. He had been prepared to kill men and instead there was just this charred, broken ruin. His arms ached from tension. The Hound launched a broken piece of rock into the steaming lake that had formed around the base of the library tower and watched the plume of water that rose up in satisfaction. He did it again, three, four, five times until he satisfied the rolling anger that raged in his chest. The red rage that had clouded his mind began to dissipate and he took some deep breathes to calm himself. He had always been able to sense danger and he felt overwhelmed with warnings right now. His mind said they should flee this place but right now Sansa was probably making up some buggering feather beds for them to sleep in that night in the rooms that were still standing. He felt conflicted and torn between making her happy and keeping them safe.

Entering Winterfell had been worse than fighting on a battle field. It had been like living in a nightmare, a shadowy dream come to life that they couldn't wake from. They had crept up to the castle in the early morning dark, cautious of who or what they might find there. They had no real information to go on, just rumours from the sailors and the things Roose Bolton had told Sansa at Harrenhal. Grendle had learnt a few tales from the villages when he had got supplies but it was all conflicting stories when they pooled their knowledge and the three of them were nervous as they approached. Despite the fighting ability of the Hound they knew they were no match for a garrison of soldiers and they felt ill-prepared. They didn't voice their concerns, each aware of the other's feelings, instead they lapsed into gloomy silence whilst their heads raged with tension and fear.

Sansa had led them in through the Godswood, the pathways imprinted on her soul from years of playing there with her siblings. She had realised the desolation as soon as she had left the woods and she had seen the castle in darkness; black against the almost black of the night sky. There had usually been glowing torches slung in iron braziers that hung on the walls and cheerful fires burning for the guards to warm themselves on. There had always been movement and voices, people working, hunting, living. Everyone had known their appointed task and it worked like the year turning, spring followed winter and the common people followed the Starks.

Now the only Starks there were buried in the crypts and one woman, disguised as a boy, who stood and stared at a place she struggled to recognise. Every wooden structure had been burnt. Ancient stone had been charred from grey to black and walls had collapsed from the heat of the thatch and beam burning. The First Keep had fallen. Wintertown that existed around the walls had been decimated. It was entirely devoid of life. It had the neglected, empty felling of a ruin, at least it seemed empty but they were not foolish enough to assume. They entered cautiously, expecting hidden danger. The Hound had made Grendle and Sansa wait outside the wall and he searched the castle for people. He was gone a long time and the two of them found themselves embracing in nervousness in the cold, grim dawn. Eventually his huge figure appeared in the archway, beckoning them in. Only once he had been satisfied that it was empty of life did he let them into the main part of the inner courtyards. He growled a harsh warning that there could still be people hiding there though, that they had to be on guard at all times. Then the Hound sent Grendle to find supplies. The boy was quick as an eel seeking out the servant's quarters; the scullery and kitchens.

When he returned he reported there was food there, enough to stay a long time, 'Is that what we are going to do?' Grendle asked the others who were standing ankle deep in mud. Sansa turned away and walked off. The Hound was silent and so was the boy. They caught each others eyes and said nothing. The granite castle in the centre of the complex was standing, looming above them. Only a dragon could have broken those walls. The Great Hall was open to the stars and sun though, the roof fallen in and lying in shattered ruin upon the ancient floor. They found Sansa stood on the broken stone. She had lifted a dead raven from amongst the crumbled rocks. It hung in her hands like a curse and the Hound had ripped it from her and flung it away. Once again she turned and walked off into a different part of the castle.

'Let her go Grendle,' the Hound said as the boy went to follow her, 'let her be, she is grieving.'

'What shall we do then?'

'Stable the horse somewhere, find him food if you can and rub him down.'

The boy was quick to obey him, without a word of sarcasm. He too could sense the danger here but he cause also sense the anger and most of it was centered in the big man giving him orders. When he returned he found the Hound furiously throwing rocks into the pool. Grendle picked up a small, round stone. It was flat and he skimmed it across the hot water. It bounced six times and with each dancing hop the Hound felt some of his anger evaporate. He turned to look at Grendle, who was smiling at him.

'Are you afraid, boy?'

'No, not with you here.'

The Hound laughed loudly, 'I can't beat every bugger that attacks us.'

'I think you could.'

'Don't be fucking stupid; remember when I was lying in a stable nearly dead?'

'But you didn't die, you're the Hound.'

'Your belief in me is touching lad, but all men die and I feel my time is coming.' The Hound patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, 'if I die will you help Sansa, try and keep her out of danger?'

'Of course, but you can't die. We only just found each other.'

The Hound stared into the pool again and watched the steam rising, 'All men must die,' he repeated.

Grendle was unsure what to do. He rubbed his mousy hair and furrowed his brow. He had never known Sandor to be this depressed. He hopped from one foot to the other. 'Look, this places stinks, it really does but we'll leave soon and keep moving. You're cold and hungry. There is lots of food in there. Let's go in and find Sansa and make a meal in the kitchen. Come on,' he pulled at the Hound's armour, 'come on old dog. There's wine in there.'

For a moment the Hound's face darkened and he began to push Grendle away but then his eyes softened and his ruined mouth lifted in a smile, 'Always so wise, Grendle, always finding the right words to say…one of these days you are going to get caught out and the words won't come swiftly to your tongue then.'

'Well, that's not today,' Grendle laughed in relief, 'let's find Sansa and can you stop with the morbid predictions please, it's really no fun. Nothing in the Seven Kingdoms could stop me talking.'


	34. Chapter 34

Sansa walked slowly back through the courtyards, weaving like a drunk, almost in a daze of angry thoughts. She headed towards the Great Keep ostensibly to find the others but really just to do something, anything to keep her from screaming. A bewildering lake had formed by the library tower and steam lifted off it in the morning light forming a mist around the base of the walls. She had not expected the trees to be burnt. Gaunt trunks stood like sentinels around the outside of the ruined castle walls. Sansa placed her hands on a blackened stump that was all that remained of an ancient tree. The charred wood crumbled and she found that she could break off pieces and turn them to dust between her fingertips. She didn't cry, this wasn't a limp, self pitying grief that demanded tears. It was deeper, colder, in her bones. She gritted her teeth and cursed as she stared at the grey soot that covered her palms. Without wishing it an image of her father standing before the baying crowds in Kings Landing came into her mind. She had believed Joffrey would pardon him, would let him go North and take the black. When he had condemned him to death Sansa had felt powerless, there was nothing she could do accept scream and close her eyes. Now her eyes were wide open and she was taking in every sight, every smell that signified the destruction of the Stark family seat. This time she wanted to do something, she wanted to rectify her past mistakes and make her father proud of her, she wanted to live up to her mother's expectations of her.

Sansa walked up the well-worn steps into the keep. She hurried towards the staircase and followed the curved, nauseating steps to the top and stepped out into the round room. It had been ransacked, chests over turned, clothing scattered. My room, she thought, so long ago. She went to Arya's bed and looked beneath it but all of Arya's trinkets and collections of oddities had been taken. Why take worthless toys? Sansa felt her rage rise again and she ran to the window. The wooden shutters had been torn off and the velvet drapes sewn by her Septa had been slashed. Sansa pulled them apart and let the harsh wind blow in. The view was ruthless, cruel and uncompromising. The land mocked her frailties. The cold wind was like a sharp slap in the face and Sansa closed her blue eyes and sagged to her knees and she placed her weary face against the stone sill. What could she do? What hope did she have in this unsympathetic world? If her wise, strong father had been beaten, how could she, Sansa, make any difference? Pearl had told her to listen to what Sandor told her because he wanted to keep her safe but she had ignored him since they left the ship.

She could sense the reassuring bulk of her husband waiting patiently for her somewhere in the castle and she could imagine the chatter of Grendle, the annoying tap tap tap as he played with his dagger. Sansa knew they would obey her if she demanded it. Not because she was the heir of Winterfell, but because she was Sansa and they loved her. It is a heavy weight being responsible for the lives of those that love you. Sansa could insist on a course of action and out of love they would attempt it, even if it put their own lives at risk. That was cruel folly and Sansa knew it. She had been childish insisting they came here but it filled her heart with joy as well as sorrow seeing old familiar things amidst the destruction. Their only hope of survival was avoiding danger, not trying to right the wrongs accorded to the Starks and besides, she thought, she was a Clegane now. She should focus on Sandor and Grendle, keeping them safe. Despite this swirl of contradictory thoughts, common sense mixed with a heartbroken desire for vengeance, Sansa hung on to that one idea…I must keep the other two safe. Sansa pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the light headed rush that assailed her, and went to her clothes chest that stood behind the door. Inside she found some of her gowns, miraculously untouched by the vile raiders, and she held one up against herself. The green fabric made her eyes look turquoise and her hair bright red, the broken mirror on the wall reflected a shattered image but in the fragments Sansa could see she looked pretty. Perhaps, just for today she could dress as a Lady again.

* * *

The fire pit was full of kindling and sticks but Grendle couldn't get it started. The Hound sat with his feet up directing him, whilst swigging from a wine skin. With each pull of the red liquid the Hound grew merrier and less maudlin.

'Try again Grendle, any fool can get a fire lit'

'Why don't you try rather than barking orders at me.'

'No, fire is not my favourite thing. Wine on the other hand,' he took a deep swig, 'wine is a reliable old friend.'

Grendle muttered a range of curses, 'The wood is damp I think.'

'Find some paper then. Though I don't think the Stark's were into reading, swords and daggers you could find, books unlikely.'

'You are not being much help.'

'I am, I am helping you by not giving you a beating, now get the fire going before Sansa gets here.'

'Shouldn't we go and look for her?'

The Hound took another drink. His dark eyes glinted. 'No, she needs time to think.'

'I thought you said there was danger everywhere?'

'Aye. That I did.' Then he drank again and leant back in his chair sighing loudly.

Grendle kicked him in the foot. 'Stop it, being drunk won't help.' The boy started searching in his pockets. 'Here,' he said brandishing a crumpled up piece of paper, 'here's some paper we can use to light it.'

'That's not enough. Give it to me.'

'Can you read?' Grendle asked as he passed it over.

The Hound glared at him and snatched it. He scanned the words and looked up at him. 'Where did you get this?'

'I'm not sure.'

The Hound stood up, dropping his wine, 'Think, think Grendle.'

'I think…'

'Yes,' The big man was grabbing the boy's jacket and shaking him, 'where did you get it?'

'I got it from a man I killed. It was in his pocket. The one who was following me from the village.'

'The one who worked for Gregor? Is that right?'

'Yes, yes…what does it say?' asked Grendle

'Yes,' said Sansa, 'what does it say Sandor?'

Grendle and the Hound turned to the corner of the room where Sansa was stood on the bottom step of the staircase. Her soft, silken voice, so ladylike and refined sounded utterly out of place in the dark, grotty kitchen. The sight of her slim body, slender as a young birch wrapped in tight green velvet that accentuated every bend of her womanly body was a shock. Her breasts and hips were curved in a way they had forgotten about in the long nights on the ship and cold days dragging through the countryside. She had become one of them almost, dressed in her boy clothes and bashing brambles with her elm stick. She had washed her cropped hair and pinned it back off her face with something small and feminine, something that sparkled like a coronet and made both the men tongue tied. She looked so entirely female all of a sudden, and not just female; she looked like a Lady. Grendle felt self-conscious and common. Sandor felt a bolt of lust and love that made him gasp to say something but all words had evaporated from his conscious mind.

'So,' she said walking towards them like a wood nymph from an ancient tale, 'what does the paper say that is so important?'

'Paper,' they both repeated.

'Give it here, why are you acting so strange. I can wear a dress if I like.' Sansa took the paper and read it. 'Oh no,' she said and looked into Sandor's eyes. The Hound nodded and his face was grim.

'What does it say?' asked Grendle in a rage.

'It's a description. Of you.' Sansa was shaking her head.

'Me?' Grendle shook his head and sat down on the floor. 'I don't understand.'

'Someone at Harrenhal gave my brother a description of you, because you helped Sansa escape. He is searching for you and giving your description to his hired thugs.'

'So,' said Grendle defiantly, 'I don't care.'

'So he knows Sansa is alive and he knows who you are.'

'He doesn't know where I am though.'

The Hound began to laugh grimly; it was a dark and joyless sound.

Sansa looked up, she couldn't stop the tears flowing now, 'Where's the one place I would go Grendle?'

'Here, I guess.'

'Yes, here. We are exactly where he would look for us.' She threw herself into Sandor's arms and he held her tightly, 'I've been such a fool,' she said.

'No, I have been the fool. All these years. I should have killed him a long time ago.'

Grendle sat on the floor, small as a rabbit, his bony knees drawn up to his chin. His jacket and Pearl's old, woolen dress wrapped around him like a conjurer's robes. He looked like an old wizard rather than a child, 'Was it a good description?'

They both looked at him and then knelt down one each side of his trembling body. Sansa put her arm around him and the Hound read it out, 'There's a description of Sansa then it says: The boy. Cheerful little bastard. Skinny, mouse haired, pale eyes, scarred arms and face. Do not kill, remove fingers if he won't talk but I kill him. And it's in my brother's hand, he always wrote like a three year old.'

'Sounds like a lot of people.' Grendle said, trying for his normal cheerful tone.

Sandor pulled him into a fierce embrace, 'I won't let him kill either of you.'


	35. Chapter 35

It had taken a long time to get Grendle to go to sleep. Sansa had to sit by his bed and stroke his head until he relaxed enough to close his eyes. It wasn't even sunset but they were all exhausted. Their only plan was to rest for a few hours and then make some tough decisions about where they should head.

Sansa turned away from the sleeping child. Unconscious, he looked his age, vulnerable and new to this world. His innocent mouth seemed so distant from the person who had mudered men to rescue her from Harrenhal. Sansa couldn't help kissing his cheek and tucking his blanket under his chin. He had insisted on sleeping in the space next to the fireplace, surrounded by logs and sticks. Like an animal in a nest.

They sat at the huge oak table in silence, the boy asleep behind them. The fire gave off a strange heat that refused to warm their bones. Ravens cawed in the loft space far above them as if nature had entered inside the castle and it was no longer the domain of humans. Sandor pushed his food around his plate and his huge shoulders were slumped. Sansa got up and began to pull at his armour, wanting to rub his stress and pain away. He gently caught her hands and shook his head, 'I'll need this on if Gregor turns up.'

She sat back down, her turquoise dress swirling around her ankles in a painful parody of an elegant princess seated at a banquet. She lifted the silk fabric and let it fall slowly through her fingertips, 'I should get changed.'

'Yes, it would be more practical. Yet, how it pleases my eyes to look at you.'

Sansa smiled, even as her eyes shone brighter blue with a sheen of tears.

The Hound stared at her. They didn't need to say words of love, it was in their gaze, and it was in his fingers as he reached across and placed his large hand over her smaller one.

'I'm going to make us tea. Something healing and calming. Would you like that?'

'Yes, my little bird, yes. Let us drink tea together.'

'Are you teasing me?'

'No. I have no teasing left in me, no anger. Only you.'

Sansa got up and went to where a kettle sat on the edge of the fire. She moved it so it sat above the insipid flame and waited for the water to boil. Eventually she lifted it and brought it to the table. The Hound watched her as she got the pack Pearl had given her. She felt his dark eyes on her back; following the shape of her spine, the curve her form made in the dress. It made her aware of her whole body. As she moved her arm or dipped her head she knew he was watching her. It made her skin burn and tremble with the anticipation of him touching her. Soon, she wanted him to touch her soon.

Each small movement she made felt intensified by the strength of his desire for her. She looked over her shoulder and caught his eyes. How beautiful he was. His scarred face was no longer frightening to her but beloved. Each ridge of scar tissue was familiar to her fingers and lips. The side of his face that was untouched by Gregor's evil was handsome. The cheekbones and nose were strong; they showed his character. But it was his dark, deep eyes that held her attention. She always returned to them. They could flash in anger, frustration or vengeance but they always softened when regarding her. The man loved her; it was a rare feeling to know someone really loved you despite all your flaws and mistakes…he saw a strength in her that no one else had ever seen. Sansa thought about this and realized she was the first person to see his strengths and brilliance. For both of them, it was the first time someone had really seem them, saw the inside of them. What a Septon would call their soul. Sansa looked at him again and he smiled a sweet smile as if he could read her thoughts and agreed with them.

Sansa measured out the chamomile flowers and added a pinch of lavender to help them sleep. Spontaneously she reached into the bottom of the pack to find some honey, ignoring Pearl's entreaty to save it for injury; she wanted to sweeten the Hound's feelings, to cheer him on this miserable evening. She found some rose petals and put a pinch of them into the brew…for love, she thought. She found the jar of honey, but reaching for it she also pulled out a sack of herbs out she had forgotten about.

'Oh,' she said, without meaning to, her breath coming out in a gasp.

'What is it girl?'

'Nothing. Nothing important. Some herbs I had misplaced.'

'And herbs are the most important buggering thing these days, eh?'

'No, nothing important.'

'Good, now bring me that tea little bird, before a man dies of thirst.'


	36. Chapter 36

The horse stamped its massive hooves and whinnied in irritation so that the rider jerked on the bridle causing the bit to cut into the tender flesh of the mouth. The horse shook its head but no longer stamped. It waited. It was used to this cruel treatment; it was all it had ever known.

The rider is staring down into a valley of moorland and trees. In the distance a great castle dominates the landscape. Wind blows hard on this exposed ridge and buffets against the sides of the horse and man. His travelling cape hangs heavy though and does not flap. He is wearing a huge, metal helmet which looks as forbidding as the plate armour that covers his body. He does not look like a man. He looks like a figure from a nightmare, the kind of dream one would have woken from screaming.

'What would you like us to do, Ser?' asks a gruff voiced man. His question is polite, nervous even. He is sat behind the huge figure seated on the war horse. He doesn't expect the giant man to answer him but they have been waiting for nearly an hour now, just staring at Winterfell, and they are all getting impatient. Yet, this is a dangerous thing to do, ask a question.

Twenty men, all brigands and skilled with a sword, all used to rough living and stealing the fruit off the branch of life and all sworn to fight for Ser Gregor. Not that they had much choice in the matter, if you are offered the choice of, 'follow me or die,' then you follow. Yet, over the last month even these hard nosed bastards had trouble watching Gregor cut his way through the countryside. It was one thing killing someone who got in your way, but torturing them…it was the relish he seemed to take from it that made them uncomfortable. Gave some of the men second thoughts, murmurs of discontent and ideas about fleeing, but there was no way out. They were his sworn swords now and they had to fight for him until their last dying breath, or he finally paid them and they could leave, but that wasn't looking very likely. Gregor had murdered three of the men who had been riding with them for arguing with him. He had hacked them to pieces small enough for the birds to eat so there was a general feeling of fear that lingered though out the whole group. It permeated all their thoughts so they were angry and rough, fights kept breaking out and no one trusted each other.

The gruff voiced one spoke again, 'Ser Gregor?'

Gregor Clegane inclined his head slightly toward the waiting men, 'We will wait until dawn then we will search Winterfell for the traitors.'

'Yes Ser,' they all answered as one.

'Make a fire in that hollow, fill your bellies. Tomorrow we will fight whatever hides in the stinking Stark burrow.'

The men hurried to obey him and set up a rough camp. Soon a deer was brought from a wood, prepared and slung above a fire to roast. There was low level conversation, no laughter or boasting. Gregor walked in amongst them, never showing how heavy his armour is, armour that the other men would struggle to lift let alone wear. He rips into a haunch of the deer and chews it whilst watching them. He doesn't chat to them or treat them like companions. He is as remote and cold as the night sky, but not as beautiful. His teeth are broken and he stinks of old, diseased skin and battle wounds. His eyes burn with a curious intensity when compared to the dull movements of his body, which is not graceful or remarkable save for his giant frame and un-human strength. Gregor only becomes animated when he is in battle, when he seems possessed by a vivid and terrifying evil intent on murder and cruelty.

Eventually he sits near the fire on a log someone has dragged there for him. One of the men passes him a wine skin and he drinks a long pull of it. His closed his eyes and the men talk around him, but he is listening, absorbing all their chatter.

'Not long now then lads,' said one, 'we'll have the little Stark bitch and the brat who freed her.'

'Brat? He aint no kid.'

'The description said he was a runty little thing, no more than thirteen.'

'Got to have some skills hasn't he, I mean he got her out of Harrenhal for fucks sake.'

'I heard he can turn invisible.'

'Are you soft in the fucking head? No one can turn invisible. Didn't take you for one who believed in grandmother's tales.'

'He's a wildling, that's what I heard.'

'So? Wildlings are just a bunch of thick animals. Why do you think we keep them behind the wall?'

'Are you really scared of a child? Why don't you run back to your mother, you pathetic scum.'

'All I'm saying is the men I spoke to at Harrenhal said he was a shape changing little demon.'

'Forget about the child,' Gregor said tonelessly, 'by morning I will have roasted him over the fire like that doe there.'

All the men shuffled uncomfortably, they had relaxed, thinking he was asleep. Gregor opened his eyes and stared around the fire at them all, 'whatever he is, he breathes and he shits and he can die, just like all of you can die.'

All of the men became more interested in polishing their swords or drinking their ale, casting their eyes down towards the mud. The air was thickened with tension and wariness, a heightened edge similar to what they would feel before a battle. It ran through all their minds _perhaps I could strike him down whilst he is sat there_ but the thought turned to fear as they imagined what he would do to them if they failed to give him the dying blow.

'Stark bitch got my brother killed. The boy helped her. They both die.'

One of the men felt like he should fill the silence that followed, 'That's justice. I would kill anyone who murdered my brother, even if it wasn't by their hand but by their actions.'

Others murmured in agreement. One quietly said, 'Stark woman would be worth a lot of gold, to the right person.'

'Gold,' he stretched his arms out, displaying their size, 'what is gold to me?'

'Ser Gregor is right, what is gold compared to avenging his brother?'

'Vengeance?' Gregor turned the word over in his mouth as if he were tasting it, trying to understand it, 'Vengeance. Tis not vengeance that drives me.' He fixed his cold, dead eyes on the men again. The wine had loosened his tongue and he wanted to kill each of these pitiful slugs that crawled around him. They knew nothing, nothing about what he wanted or felt. 'I wanted to kill my brother and that was taken from me.'

The men had heard this before from gossips and chatters but they hadn't believed it but now the words were in the air. Poisonous and terrible.

'Why?' A foolish man whose curiosity was fiercer than his desire to live had to ask the question.

Gregor went silent and the atmosphere was charged. Each man tried to surreptitiously hold a weapon and readied themselves to fight or flee. However Gregor didn't leap up and start dismembering them, he seemed to be genuinely considering the question. Finally he spoke, the words were slow and laboured as if he struggled to articulate his thoughts.

'When he was born and... I looked at him I felt something, something weak. He was so small, his little hand gripped my finger... I didn't care about anyone but I... felt something for him. Unbidden. He made me... feel that and since that moment I have wanted him... to be in pain until the day I chose to end his life...and now I have lost that pleasure.'

Nobody said anything. A shocked silence settled on them all like wet dew. Gregor grunted angrily as if they had all made him reflect on something he hadn't wanted to think about. All the men felt a dull terror. They slumped onto the ground and tried to sleep. He was probably watching them. They didn't want to draw attention to themselves. Sleep was difficult to catch hold of though. Images kept rearing up in their minds. Their three companions cut into pieces, so small they no longer looked human; they just looked like dog meat. The little old woman Gregor had tortured to try and get information about the boy. She had refused to talk. She didn't even scream; even when he gouged out one of her eyes and then the other. Finally he took her tongue. Gregor's fury had been terrifying to behold and the men had stood by and done nothing to stop it. The giant man had left her bleeding in the yard, a tiny figure in the mud. Gregor ordered all the goats to be slaughtered and packed and then he stormed off to find another person to interrogate in the surrounding lands. Once he was out of sight, one of the men had cut the old lady's throat as an act of mercy.


	37. Chapter 37

She wanted to sleep by the fire, next to the boy. She was fluttering around him like the little bird she was; checking he was warm and feeling his forehead. Sandor watched her. Her face radiated concern and a deep tiredness. She looked so different from the vain, naive girl he had first encountered at King's Landing. He remembered how she had spent hours gazing into her hand mirror or trying on different outfits and walking with Joffrey around the gardens. Well her dream of a handsome prince had been well and truly shattered hadn't it? No crown or silks, no songs sung for her. Married to a rough, old dog whose soul was tainted by the men he had killed. The Lannister's would never have fucking imagined this. That Sansa would be proud of being married to him, that she would love him. Joffrey's evil reward had brought them joy. His cruel plan had relied on the Hound being evil. They had never understood him. No one had apart from his sister perhaps but that was so long ago, and she had only known him as a little child. Only Sansa knew him as the man he was. The Hound thought about their marriage, how it would never have happened without Joffrey's insanity and cruel intentions. Fate had thrown them together, yet he liked to think it was meant to be, plotted by the stars maybe, rather than the Lannister brat. Stupid blond bastard had got what he deserved though; murdered at his own wedding. There was a wonderful and satisfying irony to that. Sandor only wished he had killed Joffrey himself, the day he showed Sansa her father's head on a spike. He watched now as Sansa was preparing to sleep, getting her bedding role and placing it near to Grendle.

'Come Sansa,' he said, 'come with me. Let's find a bed to sleep in this night.'

'I can't leave him alone Sandor.'

'He's fine here, by the fire. Come, I want you.'

Sansa looked at him. Her eyes grew large as she understood his intention. Slowly she stood up, casting one last look at the sleeping boy.

'He's alright Sansa, he'll come and find us when he wakes.'

'I'm afraid for him. For all of us. Are you not frightened?'

'Yes, little bird, I am. But let us put fear aside for this night and remember what we are fighting for.'

'What do you mean?'

'I want to feast my eyes on your body and taste you and smell you.'

'You do?' She blushed as she said it.

'Yes, I do. I'm going to kiss you all over from your head to your feet, then your beautiful cunt, so come with me.' Sandor felt Sansa's fingers trembling as she took his hand and let him lead her out of the room and up the stone staircase. At the top she stepped in front and he followed her through a wooden doorway.

'My parent's room,' she said sadly. It had been ripped to pieces. The bed and chests shattered into splinters. A musty smell lingered in the air. 'Is this what we are fighting for? To right this wrong?'

He turned her so she was facing him, 'This makes me angry, don't misunderstand me. I want nothing more than to kill the people who did this to your home. I want to avenge your family name and reinstate you as the rightful heir to Winterfell. I want all of this, but not as much as I want to be inside you.' Then he kissed her. It was a hard, possessive kiss and he caressed her back and neck, pulling her close to him. He felt her relax and her hands reached up to hold onto his shoulders. He kissed her cheeks, her eyebrows and her mouth. Then he said, 'Let's find a room that has escaped the damage. There must be a place for us, a place to lie down together as man and wife.'

Sansa nodded and she pulled him out of the room and along the corridor. At the end she parted some tapestries and there a small doorway and a curved, stone staircase. She mounted the first step and began to climb up. The Hound had to duck to follow her and his huge frame was cramped in the small space, but he followed her faithfully, trusting her to find somewhere.

They didn't have to climb far before they stepped into a circular room, the top of a small tower. Sansa lit some candles. Soon the room was brightened with a warm, golden light. Sandor gazed around the walls and chests. The room was thick with dust and cobwebs but it was undisturbed by malice. The bed in the centre of the room was surrounded by thick drapes and Sansa walked over and pulled one side open. The bed was covered by an ancient velvet counterpane and it was bright purple and embroidered with dragons, no covering of grey dust marred its surface. Sansa pulled the other drapes open and went to the where the window was. Then she opened the wooden shutters and let the freezing wind blow in. It lifted the dust and made it whirl around the room. The Hound stepped back and watched it dance in the light from the flames. Soon the room smelt of the night air and not years of dust.

'Whose room is this?'

'This was my Aunt's room. She died before I was born.'

Sandor walked over to a wardrobe and opened it. Inside were dresses, shoes, a variety of wooden dishes with beads, bangles and combs in them. He touched a pile of letters tied with a ribbon, 'It's been like this since she died?'

'Yes, we weren't allowed in this room but I used to come up here to hide from Arya. I liked to play with her jewellery and read the letters. I would hide inside the four poster bed and leave a crack of the curtains open so I could see. Arya never found me.'

'Your father would have beaten you for disturbing Lyanna's room,' he said. Then he turned to look at Sansa. She was sat on the bed now. Her pretty feet tucked up beneath her blue- green gown. She smiled at him, 'Yes I would have had a smack, but my father never hit me hard. He only pretended to. I was spoilt I suppose. He used to say I looked exactly like my mother and I guess that softened his feelings towards me.'

'You are more beautiful than your mother. It is more likely you look like this poor, dead sister, this Lyanna that he was so fond of.'

'No, she was wolf strong, wilful. Father would often speak of her and he always said Arya most resembled her. She was only sixteen when she died. I am older than her now.'

'Yes, you are a grown woman. A wife. My red-headed little wife.' Sandor began to take off his clothes. The cold room made him shiver but he was unaware of it. He just wanted to lie on the bed and take her in his arms. He dropped his clothes onto the dusty floor and knelt in front of her.

'I wish we lived in peaceful times and I could keep you safe.'

'You do keep me safe. I only feel safe when we are together.' Sansa placed her hands either side of his face. Sandor marvelled at her belief in him. What had he ever done to deserve such kindness and love? All he could do was repay her by loving her with every part of himself.

'I am yours, you know that. I would do anything for you Sansa.'

'Yes, I believe you. Even follow me here because I demanded it, when you knew it was dangerous,' She bent down and kissed his mouth, 'You must not obey me, I am not your Lady, I am your wife. We are in this terrifying world together. If I have a foolish idea, you must tell me.' She pulled at his great shoulders to make him get onto the bed with her.

'I cannot help wanting to do as you tell me. My whole life has been one of obeying aristocratic people like you, even as I hated myself for it.'

Sansa was kissing his grim, sardonic mouth and he lay down so she could lean over him and press her soft mouth against his face and neck, 'Do you hate me then, for making you come here?' She asked as she licked a gentle tongue up the curve of his ear, pressing her mouth against his hairline and breathing in the smell of him.

'No, little bird, I don't hate you,' he groaned softly at the feel of her warm breath, 'When you command me I just want to please you.'

'I didn't realise I was being commanding. I was being a spoilt girl. It pleases me when you do what you want to do.' Her fingers were stroking his chest and lower, following the shape of his stomach muscles and stroking the hair that covered his skin. She traced the shapes and indentations of scars that patterned him.

'So we both just want to please the other? How can this be resolved?' His voice was very deep, almost a sigh. Her mouth was lower now, kissing his body, finding the softest places; the curve of his ribcage, the skin on his pelvic bone. Her fingers stroked circles and shapes on his flesh, writing that she loved him, trying to inscribe it on him.

Sandor gently disentangled her limbs from his and pushed her onto the velvet covers. Her skin looked white against them, clean as freshly fallen snow. She looked expensive like an untouchable statue but when he leant closer he could see the freckles that covered her, they seemed to decorate her beauty like a smattering of stars in the night sky. His mouth followed the trail they left. They were thickest on her shoulders and breast bone, they vanished lower down and her flesh looked like milk, so he felt the impulse to lap at her. He opened her long, slim thighs and looked at the pink flesh there; how beautiful she was. He licked her stomach, pressing kisses on her soft breasts and arms. She always smelt like those flowers in the south, the ones that only opened on hot, cloying nights. Jasmine was it? Lily? She was like a flower, opening up for him, her legs wrapping around his hips and pulling him against her. He shivered, almost afraid of the fierceness of his desire for her. He wanted her so much, wanted to be inside her all of the time, making love instead of all this fighting, resisting cruel men and labouring for survival. How malicious life was, putting them together and then not allowing them peace to really get to know one another. Only snatched, brief moments. He could count the times he had fucked her on one hand. Too few. But if that was all he was going to have in this lifetime he was still the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms. Gently he pulled away from her, causing her to sigh as their hot flesh parted and the cold air touched her.

'I promised you once I would kiss every part of you.'

She nodded; her eyes were half closed, anticipating his mouth on her flesh. He smiled to see her like that; her desire reflecting his own. Then he pressed his mouth against the instep of her white foot and began.


	38. Chapter 38

Grendle was staring at the ceiling, trying to decide what to do next. He had woken up like a cat wakes up, from slumber to alert consciousness in one second. It took him a few more seconds to ascertain where he was, to tick off what all his senses were telling him. He was in the kitchen at Winterfell. He was cold; the fire had gone out. He was cramped; he had slept on the floor all night. He could smell ash; no one had made any breakfast yet. He was alone; Sansa and Sandor had either slept somewhere else or woken up before him and gone out. Or left without him. For a moment his heart beat in his skinny ribcage and he felt tears fill his eyes. They wouldn't leave without him, they wouldn't do that. He controlled that rush of emotion and began to quietly remember all the memories he had of them. From the first time he had seen them in the stable yard of the inn to Sansa tucking him into this bedroll last night.

He pulled his body out of the nest he had made for himself and dusted his clothes down. The packs were on the table and he rummaged through them and found some dried goat meat to chew on. He listened carefully for sounds of life but all he could hear were the grumbling ravens far above in the rafters. He took a swig out of a cup; some cold flowery tea that Sansa must have made. Grendle grimaced and spat the liquid out. Instead, he went outside to find a well and some clean water to drink.

Grendle stopped by the steaming lake. He was fascinated with the hot water that came from beneath the ground. It was so strange in this frozen land. And soon they would be in the real north, beyond the wall. The home of his ancestors, he thought proudly.

He sat on a rock and skimmed stones again. The night was retreating and the first hint of light was turning the landscape from shadow into slightly more defined lines and angles. He tried to remember what his grandmother had told him about being a wildling. It was hard to recall words, just feelings. She had liked to hold him on her lap and whisper tales about her wildling parents and her childhood in the north, but his mother had always pulled him away, snapping about _things best forgotten_. She was ashamed that they had wildling blood; he only realised that now.

Thinking about his mother was difficult. Her face was blurred in his mind. Instead of her dark hair, he saw Sansa's red hair and kind face. His mother had worked hard to support them so she had never been at home. His grandmother had been his only companion really. She cackled and laughed a lot. She had long hair and bells sewn onto her skirts. He remembered sitting by her feet whilst she knitted and told him tales of the old gods. He wished he could remember the things she told him but they were lost. Buried under the vivid memories of her death, followed by the death of his mother; why had they died? He had never known. When his uncle had arrived at their hovel he had dragged Grendle to the market and sold him to Grastus; all without saying a word to him. He was six years old.

'Well, I'm nearly twelve now,' he said to himself, although he had no idea of the date of his birthday but he could feel the nights lengthening, the winter closing in and he knew the day was near to the winter solstice. He was nearly a man. He had killed men to rescue Sansa but he felt like each time had been the result of luck, rather than skill. Grendle didn't know how long his luck would last. He skimmed another stone which sank immediately. The steam off the pool was condensing in the cold air making a mist around the courtyard.

Realising he was bored, he got up and decided to search for the two lovebirds. He cast his eyes around trying to think where they would have gone. No doubt the old dog wanted to sleep on a mattress, his old bones and therefore his grumpy voice had complained about the sleeping conditions for the last few weeks. Grendle headed back into the castle to take the staircases up and search the bedrooms. However once he started walking up the steps he had an insatiable urge to keep climbing higher. His feet found their way to the uppermost keep of the castle, where he pulled his body through the trapdoor and onto the roof. There he had an excellent view of the whole area. How wonderful it was, to be so high up. The wind was slapping him in the face and he could see the first edge of the sun rising over the horizon. He clung to the stonework and leant over to check how far down it was. Then he spat and watched it fall. Sansa would hate that, he thought. Then he did it again.

Something fluttered in the buffeting wind, a raven struggling to land on the edge of the tower. Its wings were flapped in every direction but it was determined. Eventually it managed to perch on the parapet, and then it hopped down with a raucous caw. Grendle could see a nest of broken twigs and rubbish in the cracks of the stones and lots of small cawing noises that answered the mother bird. He watched as she fed the angry, thrusting beaks that poked out of the nest. She didn't seem at all concerned about a boy being nearby, as if it was perfectly normal to find a human up here. It made Grendle smile. His eyes were so intent upon the little scene he hardly remembered where he was, then he glanced up and across the landscape, his eyes blurring, focusing on trees, rocks, tangled bushes. And riders. Galloping toward Winterfell. Far away, but moving fast. He stumbled as he ran toward the trapdoor, but he didn't fall, the raven screeched in annoyance though, flapping up and away into the sky.


	39. Chapter 39

'Sansa,' he kissed her, 'Sansa, it is morning. We must get up.'

'It's not morning.' She pulled the drape shut, 'your eyes are mistaken Ser.'

'What did you call me?' He growled and pretended to bite her shoulders. Kissing her warm neck and mouth, following the shape of her collarbone until she whimpered and caressed him, then he flung the curtains open from around the bed, 'that light is the bloody sun coming in through the window. It is dawn.'

'That is not the sun, it is the moonlight. Those are just the stars shining. Come back to bed.' She kissed his neck and mouth, using her fingers to persuade him.

'Sansa,' he groaned, 'We must get dressed, you forget the danger we are in.'

'I do not. I just choose to flout danger. I no longer care if we are killed. I only want to stay in this bed with you.' She smiled sweetly; took his large hand and placed it on her breast and pushed it down towards her stomach. 'There is something I want to tell you.'

She looked so beautiful in the first light of the day, defiant and sensual. He could not resist her, 'No more talking,' he said, kissing her mouth and taking her with a desperation born of fear that this was the last time. Staring into each others eyes and moving until they were both panting with the exertion and emotion of it all. Sandor held her close as their heartbeats slowed down. 'We fit together,' she said. They shut their eyes, both smiling. Then they heard Grendle screaming their names.

* * *

When he saw them hurrying down the staircase Grendle ran to them, throwing his arms around Sansa's waist and holding on to her. Sansa trembled; she had never seen Grendle act like this. Where was the swaggering, cheeky young man she knew so well?

'What is it?' asked the Hound, 'Who is it?' His voice was calm, low. He didn't show any panic but deftly moved around the room to get his armour.

'Riders, coming fast, we only have minutes before they are on us.'

'Which direction are they riding from?' asked Sansa.

'I'm not sure, North maybe or East I think, where the sun was rising.' His voice faltered, 'I should know, I'm so stupid.'

Sansa kissed his forehead. Then she pushed him to arms length so he could look at her. She was wearing a leather tunic and breeches again. 'Grendle, you are not stupid, you are the most resourceful person I know. Now be brave, we can escape from here. I know many places to hide.'

'How many riders?' the Hound barked.

'I couldn't tell, it was grey, the sun was behind them. I just saw horses.'

'Grendle get over here. Help me with my armour.' The boy and Sansa ran to help him put on his chain mail and buckle the plates. Before long he looked formidable but it was little comfort to them all, what use was one warrior against so many enemies?

The Hound was moving towards the door, 'So, hide is our best option. I never thought I would hide from an enemy but we are outnumbered. Where do you suggest Sansa?'

'Flee to the Godswood. Leave a fire burning here, so they think we are in the castle.'

'Once we are in the woods we cannot defend ourselves. Here we could barricade ourselves in a tower,' said Grendle.

'Then they would starve us out, the cruel bastards. No, Sansa is right, flee to the woods, we can hide there and go north secretly.'

'That is what we should have done all along. I'm sorry.' Sansa grabbed their hands, 'I brought us into this danger, let me lead you out of it.'

'Let's go,' said the Hound, 'We only have moments before we are fucking besieged.' He lifted a bottle of whiskey from a shelf and threw it into the fireplace. Grendle lit a branch and chucked it on top. It went up with a roar.

They ran out into the courtyard, shouldering their packs, 'Get Stranger, quickly,' the Hound ordered Grendle, who ran to the stables as fast as he could.

The Hound ran to what was left of the armoury with Sansa close behind him, looking anxiously around for any sign of the riders. He quickly assessed what was left in the piles of mess and destruction. He used his great strength to lift fallen beams and get into a back, storage room. It had weapons and armour stored there, obviously missed by the men who had ransacked the place. He efficiently sorted out things that would be of use and threw them towards Sansa, 'Put these on, be quick about it.'

She picked up the thick leather jacket. It had buckles to tie the leather tight around her neck and it covered her arms with reinforced plates.

'Not as good as steel, but it will stop some blades.' He deftly attached it over her soft leather jacket. Then he tied a leather helmet on so it completely protected her head and hid her features. 'Nothing will fit your legs but this hangs low,' He tugged on the boiled leather plates that reached her knees. 'Do you have your dagger?'

She nodded, 'Who is it, do you think?'

'Bolton, Baelish, fuck knows.'

They turned to see Grendle leading Stranger towards them, 'Perhaps we will all meet the Stranger this day,' said Sandor in a strange voice.

'No, this is not our day to die,' said Grendle in a cheerful voice. He had recovered some of his jaunty attitude to the situation and it lifted their spirits. The Hound laughed at the incongruous sight of Grendle grinning at him whilst wearing one of Pearl's old dresses.

'Aye, lad, you are right, we will put two fingers up to death this day,' He turned and lifted some small pieces of armour from his pile. 'Put these on, unless you plan to make the enemy die from laughing.'

Quickly, Grendle got dressed in a light hauberk of fine mail rings and matching breeches and a helmet, 'like they were made for me,' he said. He put his sword belt on and attached his sword and daggers.

'They were Robb's. Father had them made for him when he was young and wanted to be a knight.'

'Well we look the fucking part, for all the good it will do us. Sansa show us the way to go.'

The three of them moved quickly through the exercise yard and through the gateway towards the library tower. They were skirting the hot lake when they heard the unmistakable sound of hooves, galloping fast towards the castle. Stranger whinnied loudly. The Hound grabbed Sansa and pushed her towards the animal.

'The two of you get on the horse and ride into the woods. Head north Sansa, do not stop or come back for me. I will hold them off.'

'No,' she said fiercely, 'No, we won't leave you.'

'You must, he cannot carry all three of us' he said, trying to get her to mount Stranger, 'Grendle get on the horse.'

The boy moved forward and let the Hound hoist him on to the saddle. Sansa resisted, fighting against the Hound's strength. The hooves sounded louder, almost through the gate. Sandor considered knocking her unconscious just to get her to safety but he could not do that and anyway, it was too late.

Too late, the horses galloped in and skidded to a halt in the mud. Stranger reared up but Grendle held on to the reins and turned him around. Sansa and The Hound stood there with their swords drawn as the horsemen slowed to a trot and then walked around them. The Hound counted them, one, two, three, four. Only four of them, dressed in black. The one rider stopped directly in front of them and pushed back his hood.

'Hello Sansa,' he said.

'Jon.' Sansa dropped her sword in the mud.

'No time for pleasantries. Twenty horsemen approach this castle from the East. Were you planning to fight them all?'

'No,' said the Hound, clenching his fist, 'we planned to hide.'

Sansa approached him, 'Head north, to you.'

'They will be here in ten minutes, less perhaps.' Jon slung his legs over the horse and slid down. His black curls whipped in the cold air, 'We need to mount a defense.'

'I can defend my family myself, said the Hound.

Jon looked up at the huge man. 'I do not doubt that, but Sansa is my family.'

'She is my wife and this is my son.' The Hound pointed at Grendle. A huge smile lit the boy's face up.

Jon glanced at him and nodded.'Wife? So many things have changed. Yet are you not still my sister? Although you never truly thought of me as a real brother, did you?'

Sansa looked pale, 'There are many things I have done wrong in this life, and in time I will make things right. Help us now.'

'That is why I am here. We got a message from the harbour at Dragon's Point of a huge priest travelling with a red-headed woman. I admit your disguise is good but I knew it was you. I have longed to come here as well.'

'What about these attacking horse bastards?' Grendle said with a grin, 'Are we doing anything about them or just chatting?'

'Your son is a cheeky sod,' said Jon to Sandor, then turning to Grendle he said, 'You should respect your elders and betters.'

The Hound said, 'The boy is right. Do you have bow-men? If so let's position them high and we shall get beyond this inner wall and make a defense there. The lake will defend the other side.'

Jon looked at him with respect but also a grim perplexity, 'I heard you were one of the best warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. I also heard you were one of the most evil and deserved to die.'

'No,' said Sansa wildly, 'you are mistaken about him.'

The Hound shook his head, 'I am many things. You can make your own mind up if we live though this.'

One of the bowmen who had scaled the outer wall shouted, 'they are almost upon us, twenty-one men on horse. One of them is a giant.'

The Hound looked up to the sky and bellowed, 'get to your places, death is riding here and he wants to kill us all,'

'


	40. Chapter 40

He could not stop clenching and unclenching his teeth. His fingers were white from holding onto the hilt of his sword. Fuck all the gods, curse every fucking one of them for putting them in this situation. Gregor was riding towards them. He was nearly upon them. The Hound looked at his little bird. She was standing there bravely but he could see the tremble in her calves. Sandor blinked as the image of her cut down and broken flashed into his mind. Gregor's huge frame standing over her…fuck him and fuck all the ones who rose with him. Sandor began to silently curse each soul that brought death toward them. He looked around with calm, battle hardened interest. Where could he trip? Where could he feint? Where was his advantage?

They had frantically dragged some broken rocks and beams across the entrance to the second courtyard. Beyond them the library tower loomed above the massive lake. Sandor gazed around; no one could attack them that way. They only had to focus on the entrance and cover the wall. Jon stood on one side, one of his men on the other. Both held bows. Across the yard the other two crows also had bows and covered the main gate to the castle. Sansa and Grendle stood inside the inner courtyard, protected by the wall and water. The Hound stood on the rocks and beams, protecting the entrance.

'Sandor,' called Sansa, 'he does not know you are alive. Do not reveal yourself yet.'

Jon looked at them curiously. His white skin stood out clearly against his dark hair and black eyes. _There is no similarity between him and Sansa,_ thought the Hound then he answered Jon's questioning look, 'My brother. Gregor Clegane, you've heard of him?'

'Who hasn't heard of the Mountain,' said Jon, 'and he's riding this way?'

'Aye.'

Jon laughed mirthlessly. 'Then we are in a worse predicament than I first thought. If it will surprise him and give us the advantage then step back.'

The Hound acknowledged the wisdom in the idea but he didn't like to hide behind the wall. Fucking jumped up Stark bastard coming here and giving him orders. He frowned angrily, but he stepped back behind the barricade to where Grendle was stood. The boy gave him a cheerful smile and brandished both his daggers.

'I'm ready old dog.'

The Hound smiled back, his mouth twisting into its familiar grimace. 'Don't be frightened lad.'

'I'm not afraid, not with you here.' Grendle reached out a hand and grabbed the Hound's arm, 'what you said to Jon earlier, well…I never had a father and I…'

'You could be my son; I reckon I knew your mother one night. You're an annoying, stubborn, rude bastard who has a natural ability for killing; just like me.'

Grendle laughed; a big roar. His head fell back and the morning sun hit his face, a blinding burst of yellowness and heat. The Hound patted his shoulder, 'You didn't get my height though, did you, you scrawny little whelp.'

The boy punched him in the arm with the flat of his dagger, grinning like he just opened his Yule gift rather than standing in the mud waiting for some trained killers to attack. The Hound rubbed the boy's head and then held it fast so they stared into each other's eyes, 'I am going to raise you now, as my own. Not as my ward, as a Clegane, if you would like that?'

The boy stared at him for a long moment. The world was silent. No ravens circled above them. Everything was still, even the wind dropped so the Hound could hear the boy's breath hitching in his chest as he tried to control his emotion.

'Yes.' Then he smiled. It was the smile they had grown to love, slightly uneven with a sarcastic curve but his eyes were serious, the iris sharp and sincere, 'Yes, I would like that.'

The Hound nodded and let go of him. This bloody, infuriating, charming boy was braver than most of the idiot Knights he had met during all of his campaigns and the years serving the Lannisters. He was braver and he was a damn sight more intelligent as well. Grendle wouldn't get distracted by the love of gold or the desire for power. He only wanted a family, just a simple thing but this fucking evil world had taken it away from him._ I'm his family now. Sansa and I will look after him. _

The Hound was growling deep in his throat as he thought, _my own fucking family is galloping here to kill Grendle and Sansa._ Gregor wanted to murder them for taking away his opportunity to kill his own brother. Fuck Gregor, fuck him to bottom of the deepest hell. The Hound looked up to the heavens and then back down at the soil. _I will spill his blood._

The wind whistled through the masonry and they both looked sharply toward the keening wail. Grendle hitched his dagger into his belt and pulled his short sword out and swung it, copying the Hound who was now slowly moving his own sword from hand to hand in readiness. The Hound watched him, mirroring him.

'Aye, you will be my lad from now on but first I have to deal with my brother…listen, here they come.'

The Crow on the outer wall made a high whistling sound and everyone got into position. The hooves sounded much louder this time, like a rumble of thunder getting closer. Sandor pushed Grendle closer to where the wall would protect him and then he stepped into the shadow of the arched gateway, so he could see into the courtyard but not be seen by the invaders. Sansa was up high, on a ridge of broken stonework that allowed her a viewpoint. She raised her hand in a silent message and he raised his own in answer.

'If anyone fucking touches her I will cut them into pieces and feed them to the ravens,' said the Hound, his face fierce as he glanced back at Grendle.

The boy nodded, then he grinned, 'Let's cut them into pieces anyway.'

'


	41. Chapter 41

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Not this helpless horror.

Nothing could have prepared her for this. Sansa wanted to do something, anything to help but she was stuck against the wall, her body turned to stone as well with the fear of seeing men in battle.

None of her worst thoughts had been like this. Not this blurring of moments. The overwhelming noise that swept in like a murmuration of starlings.

It was in all corners at once. Echoing off the stonework so each horse sounded like an eight legged monster. Attacking, swooping and circling; the wind pulling the sound of hooves and shouting men in circles so it screamed in the ear and then it was lost.

The two crow men who had come with Jon fired arrows down into the circling horsemen and hitting some so their horses fell onto their knees with terrible screams. Three dead horses. Jon was running forward and slicing the men who had fallen off, dodging the bellowing horsemen who careered towards him…

Sansa could see Sandor and Grendle behind the wall. Her husband was staring up at her and she could see the indecision on his face. Should he follow Jon and help? That would be what his instinct told him to do but his desire to protect Sansa and Grendle was stronger. He wanted to stay this side of the wall to help them if the crows could not hold off the horsemen. And where was Gregor? Sansa knew he would be thinking of his brother, but as she glanced here and there she saw no giant man, no monster of her imagination.

And it seemed at first like they were winning, there were less horsemen than she had imagined, no more than six men galloping and falling and dying. Three men dead, three still circling. And then she realised why; climbing over the fallen masonry were more men, creeping up on the two men of the knight's watch on the outer wall and slaying them, as easily as if they were taking a wax doll and breaking it in two. It was all over in a few minutes. About as long as it had taken her to draw in her breath, hold it and release it in one slow, anguished sigh.

The bodies were tossed into the courtyard where the remaining horsemen trampled them into the mud, Jon shouting and threatening as he realised he was surrounded now, surrounded by about fifteen men who slowly advanced, forming a semi circle so he was backed up in front of the inner gateway, flanked each side by the wall.

Sansa, from where she was perched, could see Jon slowly retreating and then vanishing from her line of sight. Now she could only see the circle of enemies that faced her brother and Grendle and the Hound behind the wall, both stood, frozen, listening to the exchange on the other side.

'Give up Crow.'

'Where are the woman and the boy? Hand them over and we'll kill you quick.'

The men jeered at him. Sansa couldn't see him. She moved from foot to foot, trying to get purchase on the loose masonry. She held on to an overhanging ledge and leant out so she had a better view into the outer courtyard. Her breathing was fast and her thoughts were racing, _what can I do? Not Jon, please not Jon as well. I will have no brothers left._

Sandor and Grendle had crept closer to the arched gateway so they could listen, she guessed, their eyes and thoughts on the men in the courtyard. Sansa glanced at them but her own mind was on her dark-haired brother. There was so much she wanted to say to him. She realised in this foulest of moments that she hardly knew Jon, had never bothered to get to know him, had always treated him with glacial superiority because she was not a bastard like him but a real Stark. How cruel and terrible she had been. And now he stood there, prepared to die for her. Sansa leant out further so only her fingertips gripped the sill, on tiptoe with her slim legs bent like a right angle to balance her weight, still she quivered and it was all she could do to stretch and see the scene play out.

Jon was standing there defiantly. He looked noble. _Far nobler than I ever did_, she thought shamefully, irrespective of his baseborn origins. He is an honourable man, just like our father and he would be proud of Jon in this moment. How Sansa longed to tell him that. Father would be proud of you. Yet Sansa knew they had all let Jon down, even their beloved father, who should have taken away his bastard status, made him a Stark rather than keep him as a Snow. Yet still he stands there defending Winterfell, the home that failed him. _I failed him_, thought Sansa.

Jon was speaking now but his voice was low, she only just heard his words.

'There are no women and children here. This is my castle, by my right of birth. I am the heir to Winterfell.'

'Who the fucking hell are you?' Asked one on horseback.

'Just a Crow with illusions of grandeur,' shouted another in answer.

'I am Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark,' said Jon, 'and my brother Robb Stark made me his heir and you best kneel before I kill all of you.'

'On your own?' The men laughed and jeered. Sansa could see the attackers loosening their grips on their swords as they laughed, looking at each other in amusement.

'What could a bastard like you do? No, you will wait and answer to our leader. He will be here soon.'

Almost as soon as the words were spoken the men rushed forward and attacked Jon. He fought back and cut some of them down but they soon overpowered him. He was beaten to the floor, disarmed and pulled up roughly. It happened so fast and Sansa watched as Sandor began to move towards the archway intent on fighting the enemies. No, she thought, _no, no, no. You will die as well._ And to her deepest horror, Grendle was following him.

Then, like a curtain being pulled back and the main act of the play is revealed, the attacking men fell silent as a giant horse slowly walked in to the outer courtyard. Sansa saw Grendle and Sandor stop and slip back into the shadow. The men had dragged Jon to his feet and he was facing the warhorse. Once again Sansa couldn't see so she hung out over the wall. Her body was trembling so much her teeth were chattering. One of the men pushed Jon toward the huge horse so he was standing in front of its head. It blew through its nostrils and lifted its head up, shaking it. Jon stared up at the rider.

Gregor said, 'Where are the woman and the boy?'

One of the men said, 'He says there not here Ser, he says he's the fucking heir to Winterfell.'

Gregor got off his horse, quicker than Sansa imagined he could, his great bulk sliding and turning and running the answering man through with his sword so he slipped to the floor. Gregor kicked the corpse with his armored foot, 'I did not ask you the question.'

He pointed his huge blade at Jon so the point was inches away from his head, 'Where are the woman and the boy?'

Jon took a while to answer. He spat out a mouthful of blood and Sansa felt sick to her stomach. Then Jon said, 'I am the only person here.'

'Where are the woman and the boy?'

'I said: I am the only person here. Are you fucking deaf?'

Gregor lifted his great sword arm and brought it up into the air so it glinted in the hard, northern sun.

'No,' screamed Sansa, her fingers letting go of the ledge and she was falling. Falling through the air...


	42. Chapter 42

Grendle was watching the Hound's face. He didn't know what to do so he was staring at the man to learn from him. When the men had attacked and it was obvious they were winning Grendle had felt a deep fear rise up inside him and encircle his whole body like bindweed. It sounded like all the horsemen that had ever died were visiting from the seven hells and galloping around. The noise was terrifying and deafening. He struggled for breath, his lungs felt like they were filling up with icy water. His hands were sweating so his sword slipped in his grip. Yet all the time he focused his pale eyes on the reassuring face of the Hound. The big man was steady, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He was alternating his viewpoint; from Sansa to the archway, Sansa to the archway. Checking she was alright but taking note of everything that was happening in the battle. Sandor's face was strong and focused. He looked at Grendle and appraised his fearful stance.

'Do not let fear overwhelm you,' he whispered, 'your first battle is always fucking hard but you will live through this.'

'You said all men must die and your time was soon.'

'I lied. It is not our time. Not today.'

The Hound's face was fierce as he said it and his eyes fixed on Grendle's until he felt some of his fear melt from his backbone and he was able to wipe the sweat off his palms and firmly grip his sword again. Together they listened to the men surround Jon, heard what they said to him.

'I must help Jon,' the Hound said, as he hefted his sword and stepped forward.

'I'll come with you.'

'No, you stay here. Don't move, promise me.'

Grendle grimaced, 'I can help you.'

'No, I want you here, with a wall between you and them.'

Grendle nodded, albeit reluctantly. The Hound started to walk through the gate: he looked like a great warrior, strong and sure, then to Grendle's astonishment he stepped back, almost shrank against the wall into the shadows there. The Hound's whole body seemed to contract, his shoulders slumped and his sword dragged in the mud.

'What is it?' hissed Grendle, afraid to speak loudly in the unnatural silence that had fallen. The Hound didn't answer, just held onto the wall as if he wanted the stonework to absorb him.

Grendle moved to his side and pulled at his arm, trying to get him to look into his eyes. Leaning around him, Grendle peered out and saw the enemy men gathered in a strange circle. Bravely, he made himself look calmly around, tried to take note of the battle like the Hound would do. Count how many, gather information that may aide them. It was impossible to make rational notes in his head when the look on each of the men's faces was so disturbing. They looked sick and repulsed by something. He could see they were all staring at Jon, who was stood in front of a massive horse. Peering out as far as he dared he caught a glimpse of the giant man standing over Jon. His face was blank; it was like staring into the Stranger's face himself.

Grendle pulled himself quickly back into the shadows. There was something evil and menacing in that courtyard. Something like a coiling evil, snake like it seemed to mesmerise any who looked that way. The atmosphere was foreboding, like the nights Grastus had stood outside his stable with his belt in his hands. Grendle felt his skinny legs shake just like they used to when he could hear his old owner running the leather belt through his palms.

He shut his eyes and willed himself to be brave. Grendle's whole body was begging him to flee but he had no intention of leaving without his family, they needed him. This Mountain was almost upon them yet the Hound seemed unresponsive. He was in some sort of fit, his huge body rigid like a gargoyle. Grendle continued to paw at him, patting him and pulling at his armour. He could not make any entreaty for fear of the invaders only feet away from them.

Grendle heard the cruel voice of the Mountain ring out. His voice was so unlike the Hound's. It was a voice devoid of any emotion, cold as the slate that sat on the uppermost peak of a real mountain. Grendle tried not to imagine what this man would do to them. Grendle looked at the Hound to see his reaction to hearing his brother's voice but there was no response. Just the same blank stare. Grendle hit him harder, reaching up to slap at his face.

Grendle heard Jon's bold answer.

He heard Sansa's desperate scream.

Then the Hound moved.


	43. Chapter 43

All roads lead to Gregor. _In the end, _thought the Hound_, that is the only truth in this life._ All men must die. _Valar morghulis, _he growled to himself. Some sell sword from the free cities had used those words once, in a snatched and breathless conversation on the edge of a battle field. Sandor let his mind stream backwards in time, trying to recall his face but it had evaporated in the dark fog of his past.

Yet he had never forgotten those words or their meaning; all men must die. He had not seen the man give his life to the Stranger but he had seen others die that day and almost every day since.

Dead bodies, stiff corpses, limbs hacked off, grinning skulls. The heads of traitors on spikes. Men who had walked and talked the day before, favoured and unaware that death was lurking. Always waiting for a false move. The Stranger would always win. Gregor would always win. Death could use any weapon. The coals that burned away skin. The blade that cut a man in two. So many dead men…

A woman's voice, shrill and desperate. Sansa.

It sounded like a bird that was being plucked alive. Sansa.

The Hound shook the dreams of death from his mind and moved towards the sound of his wife screaming. _Stay, _he said to Grendle, _promise me._ The boy nodded. Sandor strode purposely out of the shadow and into the courtyard. The sun blinded him for a second and he blinked to clear his vision. He saw the men looking at him in astonishment and dismissed all of them. They would die if they came near him. He could not look toward Jon or Gregor, he could see them out of his peripheral vision; dark looming shadowy figures. If he looked at _him_, if they got eye contact, he might not be able to stop his body from freezing again. Sandor fought with every once of his formidable willpower to ignore his enemy and deal with the maggots that swarmed in his way.

He only looked towards the sound of Sansa.

Then the voice, usually flat and emotionless, but now frenzied and enraged was screeching his name: _Sandor, Sandor Sandor_. The fell and evil voice was repeating his given name as if he had given it to him: which he had, or so their father liked to tell Sandor when he was a small boy, in-between the beatings. Rough hands, cruel words and harsh lessons, and little tales of family legend like Gregor choosing his name.

Rough hands, cruel words and harsh lessons were the Clegane way and all could be endured until the burning. Those coals; so red and terrible. He had begged him, _please don't, no, please no...no…no_...His scars were burning now, prickling and tightening as he ground his teeth in hatred. All could be endured until the monster had murdered their sister. Their only pure and good thing. The only tenderness in Clegane keep. Kind Agathe. Beautiful Agathe. Her sweet candle snuffed out by the malice and jealousy of the man stood only feet away.

Sandor only had to turn his body around and they would be facing one another. He could have revenge for Agathe's death. For his father's death. For all the people Gregor had murdered. He could have revenge for his burnt face and the hell endured. All the years that men and women cringed when they saw his monstrous face. Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is but he could send Gregor to that hell, right now. Sandor pauses. He only has to turn and face him.

But Sansa was still screaming.

Sandor moved fast. He cut down two men who stood in his way and headed towards her. Another attacked from the right but he simply punched him in the face with his gauntlet and the man crumpled to the floor. Another man leapt at him and he cut him, hacked clumsily but effectively, his great strength aiding him.

There she was. Held by two men. She was only in a vest and breeches, her leather armour ripped off her. Sandor could hear his enemies approaching behind him and he turned around to fight them. Easily he crushed two more to the floor. Sandor guessed Sansa must have fell the ten foot from the wall she had been hiding on. He glanced back at her. She was standing on both legs, she looked unhurt. One man was holding her by the hair and the other grasping her shoulder. Then the Hound saw the red on her white skin. His eyes narrowed and he could only see red. Rage allowed him to slice a man's head off who was running towards him. Sandor edged a step closer to Sansa.

'Scream again pretty lady,' said one man running a blade down her arm. Blood trickled from four other long thin cuts.

Sansa shook her head furiously, like a caged wolf, trying to bite the one holding her. He kicked her shin and stuck the blade in again. The Hound noted that Sansa did scream but it sounded livid rather than terrified. Backing, turning, trying to cover all sides at once, Sandor only saw glimpses of her, his eyes focused on the men trying to bring him down. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Jon was free and fighting his way towards them. Where was Gregor though?

'Enough,' said one of the men holding Sansa, 'enough of this. Throw down your weapons or I'll stick this in her heart.'

With one graceful move Sandor covered the distance between them with his sword and rammed it into the man's face. His look of surprise was the same as all the other men who had died under his hand. What did he see in that moment? Sandor would never know. Not until it was his day to die and that was not today. He took the final steps towards Sansa and the remaining man who was struggling to hold her whilst he fumbled for his dagger. The Hound yanked Sansa from his grasp and bashed him repeatedly with his fist so the man became unrecognisable as a person and instead resembled a pile of battered armour and limbs.

Jon was shouting. He was cornered by a group of men, many more were lay dead at his feet. Others were stepping cautiously but intently toward the Hound and Sansa. Where was Gregor?

'Can you walk, girl?'

'Yes.' Sansa picked up a sword from the corpse at her feet and the two of them prepared to fight their way out of there. The Hound, even in this moment, marvelled at her bravery. Blood was pouring from her cuts but she didn't falter.

Then, moving like that fog that creeps in from the sea, a large shape came toward them from the arched gateway that lead to the inner courtyard and the lake. Hurtling towards them was Gregor. Sandor took a deep breath and looked at him. The eight foot tall monster approached with heavy steps, his giant sword dragged beside his leg, the tip touching the earth and hefted by his massive arm. Fury lit his waxy features. His eyes were black and deep like a well, they shone through his visor like dead insects. He stopped. The two brothers faced each other. Behind Gregor, Sandor watched Jon efficiently kill the last man who had been attacking him. Glancing around he saw the half dozen who remained backing slowly away, up onto the rubble and walls to watch the confrontation.

'Whatever agreement we had Ser Gregor,' called one, 'that is finished.'

'Yes,' shouted another, 'We have no argument with you Hound. Whatever the outcome is, we shall not get involved.'

The Mountain spoke slowly but eyes remained locked onto Sandor's face, 'Watch if you like …but once I have killed him… I will kill you all.'

'Hopefully the Hound will kill you.'

'My money's on the Hound.'

Sandor barked with laughter, 'You attack me in my Lady's keep so I say flee now, for either he or I will kill you. Once this is done.'

'I'm staying' said one man, 'this fight will be worth dying for.'

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the remaining sell swords. Jon had moved to a staircase that no longer led to anywhere and he stood on the top step looking down over the scene. 'Sansa,' he said, 'come here where it is safe.'

'Go,' said the Hound, pushing her gently, 'go to Jon.'

'Please,' she said. He nodded. He knew what she wanted him to do: stay alive. He watched her as she skirted a large path around Gregor and leapt up the steps. At the top Jon embraced her and the two of them stood looking down.

Slowly, the two brothers began to pace in a circle.

'You murdered Aagthe,' said the Hound.

'Shut up,' snapped the Mountain, 'never say her name again.'

'You murdered Agathe.'

The Mountain moved first, raising his sword and hurtling it uselessly through air as the Hound moved easily out of the way. The sword clunked heavily as Gregor's huge strength lifted it from the ground and aimed it at his brother's head. Once again, Sandor moved out of the way, stepping to one side and lifting his sword and bringing it down on Gregor's arm.

'You murdered Agathe.'

'Shut up,' screamed the Mountain. He rushed forward, causing Sandor to stumble back slightly. Sandor tried to keep his balance on the stones but there was rubble everywhere. The Mountain was bringing his sword down in more frenzied strokes. The massive blade hissed.

Gregor hit him on the shoulder. The weight of the blow brought him to one knee, his arm raised to try and stem the blow Sandor knew would follow. He tried to roll away, bringing his own sword low to cut at Gregor's leg. He was so heavily armoured it was impossible to gain an advantage but Sandor used his strength to knock Gregor's leg out of balance and the huge man fell. Sandor got up and smashed his sword hilt into Gregor's helm, striking the metal cheek. Gregor's sword was still swinging dangerously close and Sandor was forced to back away.

Both men panted from the exertion. They could not fight like this for long.

The Mountain said, 'I will burn you again.'

Sandor shook his head, 'Never again.'

'I should have killed you…when you were born.'

Sandor lifted his sword and pointed it at his brother, he said, 'I should have killed you when you burnt me and now I will.'

They attacked again. They were evenly matched; neither could strike a killing blow. Sandor smelt fire. Sweat was dripping from his hair, his eyes were stinging but he parried the blows and struck the metal plate to it rang out and echoed against the masonry. He glanced around, there was no fire, his mind was playing tricks on him. Sandor prepared himself to attack, one last effort.

Then the Mountain screamed like a demon and brought his sword up and down in one swift, heavy movement that connected with Sandor's sword arm. The ferocity and weight of the blow crumpled his armour and he felt his bone break. Falling backwards into the mud, Sandor looked up. _So this was death then, this moment of helplessness._ The Mountain was above him, a shadow blocking out the noon sun. His sword tip pressed above Sandor's heart.

'Agathe died by my hand…now you die by my hand,' said the slow, stupid voice of the Mountain.

_All men must die,_ thought the Hound, his body was frozen. He could not move. His brother lifted off his helm and threw it to floor. His face was evil and terrible and Sandor could not take his eyes off him. Sandor felt like his whole body was covered in flames and the spark was in those black eyes. _This is the end, I cannot beat him._ The weight of the sword pushed down on his chest. Sansa's voice was mixing with the wind. Sandor stared at his brother.

'Why did you kill Agathe?'

'You talk too much,' said Gregor, lifting his sword up, 'like that little bastard kid I killed in the archway. One punch and his head hit the wall. Another dead man.'

'No, not Grendle,' screamed Sandor, 'No, no.'

Like a bear rising onto to two legs, he pulled his body up by climbing Gregor's, using his good arm to get purchase on the platemail, Sandor heaved his weight against him like a battering ram, enraged with fury.

The Mountain brought the sword down, but his body was off balance by the raging, wild beast his brother had become. No, he was screaming, no, no, no. Sandor wrenched the sword, ignoring the sharp steel and cut fingers, he pulled it from Gregor so it fell to the floor, his broken arm forgotten, his intention was only murder.

Gregor fell as Sandor landed on him and with his good hand Sandor punched his brother in the face. Without his helm Gregor's face was soft and weak, the black eyes blinking in shock from Sandor's rage, the Mountain encased in metal was suddenly heavy and useless, his eight foot height and enormous body beaten down by Sandor's intense ferocity. The punches rained down on Gregor's face until his skull cracked and his brain leaked out, his body twitching with surprise, the last thing he heard was: NO.

Sandor ran.

The archway was dark but the little body was easy to find. He was crumpled against a wall. Sandor lifted him up and clasped him in a fierce embrace. Tears blinded him.

Sandor heard Sansa's voice and her sobbing next to him. He felt her hands take Grendle from him and then he opened his eyes to see her feeling Grendle's face and neck.

'Sandor,' she said, 'he's not dead.'

The Hound let out a sob, 'Don't lie to me Sansa.'

'There is a heartbeat, I promise you, it's faint. Feel it. Your brother only thought he killed him.' Sansa's blue eyes were vivid with tears.

Sandor picked Grendle up and carried him. He put him in the hot water of the lake. Jon and some of the men stood around watching, all focused on the little figure, anxiety rose and mixed in the steam. Sandor held him as Sansa washed the blood from Grendle's face and body. Now Sandor could see his heartbeat flickering in his neck. _No one can beat Grendle. _He bent forward and kissed him on the bruised forehead. Sansa was begging him to wake up. After many minutes that stretched like a winter's night Grendle opened one eye and screwed up his face in pain. He tried to speak. Sandor and Sansa leant forward to hear his muttered words.

'Did I get him?'

'Aye, lad, you got him alright. Greatest battle in the Seven Kingdoms.' Sandor pulled him gently from the water, 'Sansa will sort you out. She can heal you. Jon, can you make a fire in the kitchen. You men, get firewood for him, if you want another chance at life.'

'Yes Ser,' said the sell swords, dashing away, past the massive corpse that lay bleeding in the outer courtyard.

Jon nodded, flashing a charming smile and nodding in admiration. He patted Sandor on the shoulder, 'You did well brother.'

Sansa smiled up at Jon and he said to her, 'Winterfell is ours again, I promise it.'

She watched him go into the keep and then she turned to Sandor, kissing him and smiling in relief and joy, 'How glad I am you are here with me husband.'

Sandor nodded, 'My little bird,' was all he said to her.

Sansa stroked Grendle's face, 'Bring him in Sandor, if you can carry him with one arm?'

'I can carry my own son,' he said.


	44. Chapter 44

Finally, Sansa acknowledged that she too was injured, although not seriously. Landing in the soft muck and rotten leaves had broken her fall, thank the Gods. Her shoulder had taken most of the impact and was now frozen, shooting pains ran down her arm if she tried to lift it but it was not broken. Using her good hand she carefully squeezed the muscles and paid attention to her soreness and what was causing the pain. Her neck and shoulder were badly bruised and she gently massaged it to try and relieve the tightness. Sansa soaked a cloth in hot water and pressed it against the skin which was instantly soothing. She sat at the table with the fire behind her and tried to relax. Her eyes did not leave the boy lying on a makeshift bed near to the fire. The Hound and Jon both sat on chairs, drifting into sleep and them shifting in discomfort from their wounds. Other men sat drinking and playing dice, Sansa glanced at them uneasily but they seemed genuine in their eagerness to obey Sandor.

Sansa let herself relax slightly, the tight bands of courage that she had wrapped around herself to get through the battle loosened as she let herself feel relief. Everyone she loved was alive. Grendle had finally drifted off to sleep. For hours they had kept him awake, fearful of him falling into a deathly slumber. The chain mail that the Hound had dressed him in before the battle had taken most of the impact, and he seemed to have no broken bones only his head was badly cut where it had smashed against the wall and Sansa feared his eye socket and nose were broken from the force of the Mountain's punch. His skin had turned black and indigo but the Hound and Jon had looked him over and declared him unhurt. Sansa had pointed out the myriad bruises and cuts and the two men had shrugged them off with assurances that after a fight these were normal war wounds. Sansa was worried that the boy might be bleeding internally but she needed someone far more experienced with medicine to advise her. _If only Pearl were here, she could help him_, she thought. Instead she had to cast her mind back to those brief lessons and tried to remember what plants healed broken skin or soothed pain. Sansa had worked for hours boiling different remedies and helping Grendle to sip them, talking to him so he did not slip back into unconsciousness. She babbled nonsense and songs to him whilst washing his cuts and treating them with poultices. Eventually she felt assured that he wasn't feverish or likely to die in his sleep, she let him close his eyes but she stayed next to him; listening to him breathe in and out and making sure he did not choke or gasp for air. She would tenderly press her fingertips on his pulse, as gently as a butterfly landing on a flower, feeling his heartbeat and soothing her fear. _Don't die_, she thought, _don't leave us_.

Sansa drank from the tea she had brewed for herself. Liquorice and rose petal. The scent rose to her nostrils, sweet and fragrant. She could not remember what they did medicinally, her mind was blank with exhaustion, but she liked the smell of it; somehow it warmed her and cheered her spirits. Sansa smiled grimly to herself because she felt on the thin edge between sobbing and laughing and it felt like a kind of madness. She almost wanted to scream or go outside and kick the corpse of that evil giant man who had tried to kill them all. He was dead but Sansa felt an irrational fear, like the kind she felt about witches and ghouls when she was a child. The Mountain seemed indestructible but she had witnessed his death so why was she still afraid of him? Gregor had fallen quickly once Sandor heard him brag of Grendle's death. Sansa knew Sandor's heart had broken in that moment, she knew because her own heart had fell in half like a cut apple. The moments before when he had lay there under his brothers sword had been agonising, like the sword was stabbing her and she felt the pain of the tip of it; she had twisted in Jon's grasp, screaming and begging the Old Gods not to let Sandor die. She had understood why he could not fight his brother well. The Mountain had broken him when he was a boy, tortured him, destroyed his happiness, he was every nightmare come to life for Sandor and after years of living with that hell it had found him. Gregor was evil personified, walking, talking monster. Sansa had watched Sandor disarm Gregor at the tourney, all those months ago, and she knew he was more talented and faster than the Mountain. Yet Gregor was a demon from a dark dream, the man who had held Sandor's face in the coals and ravaged his skin and his life. Sansa shuddered; just the thought of Gregor's evil face looming close was enough to make her want to vomit in fear. And Agathe? Would she ever be able to ask Sandor about her? He had never mentioned her but how he had bellowed her name at Gregor; it had rung around the courtyard and echoed off the masonry: _you killed Agathe_. Those words may ring around Winterfell for years to come, on grey days when the wind howls forgotten tales and bitter memories.

One of the men got up and threw a log on the fire, waking Jon who got up stiffly and came to sit next to Sansa. He put his hand over her and she smiled at him. He leant his head forward so their foreheads touched.

'The boy is well. He will live. You should rest now.'

'I cannot rest until he is up and insulting you again.'

Jon chuckled, 'I look forward to that moment.'

Sansa stroked Jon's cheek and kissed him gently. His dark eyes stared into her blue ones and they both had the same expression of tiredness tinged with sadness in them, Sansa said, 'I was so afraid you would die.'

She sat back in her chair to contemplate him and he did the same, his face scowling as his bruised body complained. He lifted his wine cup up and toasted her, 'We are made of tough material, you and I.'

'And Arya, she lives yet. A prisoner of the Bolton's.'

'I pity anyone who tries to kill her. Wildcat, she is or a wolf bitch. She would gut anyone who came near her. I gave her a sword you know, before she left for King's Landing.'

'You gave her needle?' said Sansa, 'I wondered where she got it from.'

'And what would you have thought, if she had said it was I that had given it to her?'

Sansa picked up some of the bags of herbs and arranged them in different patterns, 'I would have been even more dismissive of her love for it.'

'You are honest.'

'I have learnt a lot since then. Please forgive me for my foolish ways. I was naïve, and arrogant. I treated you badly. We all did. I am proud to call you brother.'

Jon did not say anything for a moment; instead he stared at the ceiling, finally he muttered, 'You have no idea, how long I hoped to hear you say that. I also have things to confess…I was so jealous of you in a way, of your relationship with your mother. When I was small I wanted her to love me also and when I realised she never would I hated you at times for how she pampered you and how you looked like her. Arya loved me, irrelevant of my birth and so did Robb and Bran and Rickon. Yet you never liked me, you only thought of me as your mother did; with dislike.'

Sansa reached over and took his hand again, 'There are many things I regret in this life but not I want to make up for the things I did, I want to live a good life. Be as honest and honourable as Sandor.'

Jon laughed, 'The sentiment is moving sister, but allow me to say that the irony of trying to live up to Hound's way of life is one of life's most surprising turns. Before I met you here I would have thought he was one of the most evil men in all of the Seven Kingdoms yet here I find you a changed woman and happy too. This man who most would shudder before has made you happy?'

'He has. He is the best man I have met in this life.'

Jon smiled, 'He is the greatest warrior I have seen and now I too count him as my brother.'

'He will be loyal to you and to Winterfell.'

'I already know that. He does not lie when he says something, that much is obvious.'

Sansa said, 'Have you heard anything about Arya?'

'Only what you have told me. You say she has been married to bastard there, Ramsay Snow? Well, perhaps Arya will pay him back for his cruelties.'

'I cannot bear the thought of her forced into marriage. What if she has a child with him?' As Sansa said the words it jogged her memory and a blush flooded her pale face. She pressed her slim hand against her stomach. She had not thought it before now, had not had time to worry about it. _Their baby_. The last few hours had passed by in such a blur of fear and agony she had only focused on the visible not the sweet secret she carried. Would her fall have hurt the unborn one? She looked up to see Jon staring at her with concern, 'Are you hurt Sansa?'

'No, I am tired, that is all. I would like to lie down. Would you watch Grendle for me? Promise you won't fall asleep but check that he breathes?'

'I would do anything for you.'

'Thank you, brother.' She walked past where Sandor slept in a chair and stroked his face, 'Tell him where I am if he wakes please.'

'Yes Sansa, I will, you get some rest now,' said Jon as he sat back with his boots on the table, watching the boy's chest rise and fall with each sleeping breath.


	45. Chapter 45

He could not decide what was annoying him more: the incessant snoring of the man sleeping in the corner or the cold chill that was creeping up his legs. It felt like he was already beyond the wall, not sat in the kitchen of Winterfell. Sandor stamped his feet and shifted his position. He didn't want to wake up. He wanted to sleep for seven days and everything was conspiring against him. Fuck this noise. Fuck this damn cold. He considered getting up and kicking the nasally challenged sell sword out of the kitchen but he knew it was churlish and he didn't want to feel angry, he wanted to slip back into the sweet dream he had been having. Sansa's white skin beneath his hands, the sun on his back, the pair of them lying in a meadow of long grass, the kind that surrounded Clegane Keep. Now Gregor was dead there was nothing stopping him from returning to his family seat. Nothing, if you didn't count the Lannister's or the Bolton's and Gods knew how many other buggering bastards in the Seven Kingdoms who would like nothing better than to kill him or Sansa. _Every man is an enemy_, thought the Hound, _every man apart from Jon Snow and I don't know if I can trust him yet_. The Clegane House and the Stark House joined in marriage, such an unexpected turn of events. Sandor smiled as he thought about his wife telling Snow she was married to the Hound. Jon's face had been a picture of bewilderment and shock but it was true: Sandor and Sansa were married and no one could part them. Not in this life.

Sandor tried to turn in his chair to get more comfortable but he twisted his broken arm and a dull ache began to throb in his elbow making sleep impossible. With a soft growl he opened his slate grey eyes and glared at the fire that had gone out and then at the man who was snoring like a fat pig on the other side of the room. Before Sansa had come into his life he would have beaten that man for snoring and thrown him out of the room but now he simply simmered internally and made a mental note to make sure that particular sell sword was on night watch next time he wanted to sleep. The Hound stood up and moved towards the fireplace. His shoulders were tight and his body language murderous; if the sell sword had woken he would have been cowering in fear but he slept on and his snores rumbled around the lofty kitchen. Sandor glared at him, his fists clenching, then his face softened as he leant down and checked the boy sleeping to the left of the hearth. Grendle's skin was a healthy colour in the parts that weren't bruised and he wasn't feverish. The Hound placed his big hand gently on the boy's forehead.

'He's fine, I've been watching him,' a soft, low voice spoke from the alcove to the right of the fire.

'I didn't see you there, Crow.'

'A crow and a hound,' Jon chuckled, 'are we creatures or people?'

'Both.' The Hound knelt down in front of the fire and began to poke the embers. Leaning forward so his mouth was inches from the coals he blew slowly. _Fire could go fuck itself, _he thought_, it has no dominion over me any more. It cannot hurt me, like that corpse in the yard cannot hurt me. _Again, he blew on the fire. After a few moments the red coals caught into flames and he fed small pieces of kindling on top of them. Jon watched him, his feet still resting on the edge of the table. Sandor leant toward the log basket at Jon's feet and hefted some onto the fire with his good hand. Soon it was blazing and the heat began to warm them, lifting the chill atmosphere in the room. Not until he was sure the fire was well in did he step away from it and lower his body into a chair next to Jon. Both of them stared at Grendle.

'Do you think he's warm enough, now the fire is going?'

Jon nodded and passed Sandor the wine skin. 'He does not lack for warmth. Sansa put three blankets on him. I un-wrapped him when she went upstairs.'

The Hound grunted, 'She likes to take care of people.'

'Yes, Catelyn was the same.'

'But not you, eh? Couldn't care for the bastard in her house' The Hound passed the wine back.

Jon took a long drink, then shook his head whilst wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he smiled, 'Sansa and I were just talking about this before she went up. I was the unwanted crow in the nest I suppose.'

'You cannot choose your family.'

'Yet it seems you have chosen this boy. Why do you take him as your own?'

The Hound smiled. His grin was ghastly in the candlelight and Jon recoiled slightly at the misshapen mouth. The Hound noticed his reaction but he ignored it and continued to smile until Jon leant forward to hear what he had to say.

'The boy is like a limpet on a ship. Impossible to prise off and I would not want to. He makes me happy. Happy…I never thought I would even say that word. The way he sees the world is refreshing. He always sees the positives, he always has hope, he always tries to help me and keep Sansa safe. Gregor beat me when I was a child and Grendle was beaten. I became a dark monster but Grendle still has a light inside him. Can you understand why I would love a child like that?'

Jon breathed out in one long breath, aware suddenly that he had been holding it whilst the Hound talked. Sandor's grey eyes were intense and emotional; difficult to reconcile in that huge killer's body.

'I understand that he is a very special person and I look forward to getting to know him when he wakes up.'

'He is not perfect mind you,' the Hound barked with laughter making Jon jump, 'he is infuriating, rude, exasperating and insolent. But he is my son now and I am proud of him.'

'Sansa loves him also.' Jon drank another draft of wine, 'and you she praises greatly.'

'Perhaps you think I am unworthy of her love?'

'On the contrary, I think you are the greatest Knight in the Seven Kingdoms, after all you killed the biggest monster I have seen in this land and I'm sure you know that Sansa always dreamt of a Knight for a husband.'

Sandor laughed, coughing on his wine. _The cheeky damn Crow_, he thought,_ he and Sansa have the same sarcastic humour_.

'You are not dull as I first thought Jon Snow. You have some fire in your guts like Sansa and the little wolf bitch. You Stark's are stubborn and brave and now we are family. I will protect your sister; have no fear that I am anything other than loyal to her.'

'I do not fear you. Nor do I imagine you would hurt her.' Jon stared at Sandor then he continued, 'I only wonder what you will do now? Will you stay here? It is not safe. I cannot linger here. War is approaching on all sides. I am needed at the wall.'

'Sansa will want to stay here but we cannot hold it with a few dubious sell swords and brigands.' The Hound leant forward to poke the fire with a metal poker. The sparks hissed and lit up their faces.

'Do you see this as your home now?' Jon threw a log to him to put on the fire.

'Home is wherever Sansa is.'

'Come with me to the wall. You will be safe there.'

'Tomorrow, we shall discuss it. Once the boy is better.'

Both men drank again and sank into companionable silence, broken by the toneless sound of snoring reverberating from the corner of the room.

'Shall I stick my knife in that bastard's guts or do you want to do it?' The Hound grinned and this time Jon didn't flinch but smiled back. Then Jon picked up the empty wine skin and threw it so it hit the sell-sword on the forehead. He woke up with a grunt and a gurgle, indignant and surprised. Once he had stopped swearing and stamped out peace settled on the kitchen and Sandor and Jon closed their eyes and finally got some sleep.


	46. Chapter 46

The trees in the Godswood seemed to lean over them, listening to their conversation. Sansa reached out and let her fingertips brush across the trunks, feeling the ridged bark that seemed different and distinct on each tree. The oaks had lost their leaves and their branches twisted and pointed like fingers. The yew and pine still held on to their needles. They were trees made for the frozen north. Beneath their branches it felt enclosed and sheltered; safe from other concerns. The needles on the floor made a soft carpet for their feet and gave the forest a feeling of otherness: dark and primal. Sansa could imagine the first men walking in forests like these. She turned to look at the man walking beside her. Tall and imposing, brave and fierce: Sandor seemed at home in these woods. She slipped her hand into his and led him toward the centre of the Godswood. A small pond, chill and flat lay before them, reflecting the trees around it so it seemed like a mirror into another world.

Here there was no bird song, only a listening silence. The Weirwood that grew there was huge. It towered over the surrounding trees and the branches hung down, forming a space like a chapel. The bark was white, like snow. Or bone. The leaves were dark red, darker than Sansa's hair. _Like blood,_ she thought, shivering. The Heart Tree her father had called it, and she had never been scared of it in the past, hardly pausing to really look at it. She had understood her father was attached to it, but she was drawn to the Seven Gods as she had been taught at Catelyn's knees. Now, as she stood there before the ancient tree, the twisted face seemed to pull her in, hold her gaze. She heard Sandor gasp beside her and she knew he felt the same primeval power that was contained there.

They stood silent before it.

Eventually Sansa said, 'The Andals would have destroyed this tree, like they destroyed the ones in the South.'

'I am glad they did not.'

'The children of the forest believed that the Weirwood trees were the Gods, and when they died they became a part of them.'

'Right now, I can believe that.'

'The Old Gods watch us through the face,' said Sansa, 'before them we cannot lie.'

Sandor reached out his hand and touched the white bark. His face was brooding, his eyes closed. He looked exhausted and worn out.

Sansa placed her hands on his arm and turned him towards her. She said, 'Ask me anything.'

For long moments they stared into each others eyes._ I will never get tired of his eyes_, she thought, for in his eyes she saw his love for her. Dark, emotional and intense; he hid his soft nature in an armour of cool aloofness and terrifying behaviour but he could not disguise his feelings in his eyes._ How lucky I am, _she thought,_ that I got to see his tender, secret side. _

He said, 'You love me?'

'I love you.'

'Why?'

'Because you didn't care about my title, my land, my potential in power games; you wanted me for myself. I could feel you wanted me.'

'That is true. I do not care about power or titles. I wanted you like a man wants a woman.'

'What did you think when you first met me?'

'I thought you were a silly, simpering, shallow girl.'

'I thought you were a cruel, evil brute.'

Sandor pulled her close to him so he could embrace her. She placed her head against his chest. He was not wearing his armour so she could feel the warmth of his flesh through his clothes. Pressing her head closer she could hear his heart beating, strong and hard as the rest of him.

He said, 'I was cruel. I was a brute. You were brave. When Joffrey taunted you or treated you cruelly you did not stumble or break but you grew stronger. You resisted them. It showed me how weak I was, obeying them.'

'You are not weak; you are the strongest person I know.'

'Strong in body, perhaps, but I was weak in mind. I could only obey my masters. I only found pleasure in killing. That is the truth.'

'Why would I make you change?'

'It wasn't your beauty…you were kind to me.'

'Kind? I was afraid of you.'

'But when I spoke to you, you really listened to me. No one had ever listened to me. You felt sorry for me…when I told you about my scars. It reminded me of someone.'

Sansa listened to him, his voice rumbling in his chest. He was finding it hard to say these things, but he was being honest in front of the Heart Tree. She wanted to ask, who?

Then he whispered, 'Agathe,' and her heart felt a deep sadness for this man and she loved him even more fiercely and protectively.

She said, 'The truth is I found you compelling from the first moment I saw you. I had never seen a man like you before. Other men with swords did not have your intensity or anger. I was intrigued by you. Yes, I was frightened of you but I it was a fear I enjoyed returning to.'

Sandor lifted her slightly so her face was close to his own. His mouth brushed hers and he said, 'You liked being frightened of me?'

'Like a wolf is frightening, because you know it can kill you, but there is no evil in it because it is only doing what wolves do, and you still want to stroke it because it is striking. There was no one else who looked like you. Joffrey, Cersei…they were evil because they were so false and beautiful but you were honest. You did not disguise the fact you despised people or that you could kill if you wanted to. Other people killed in secret, with honeyed words. In that place everything frightened me, but the fear I felt when I looked at you was the only feeling of pleasure I had. You made me tremble, but I enjoyed it. I knew you wouldn't hurt me.'

'I would never hurt you.' They kissed and she trembled beneath his hands. The kisses went on for a long time. They sank to the floor, tangled together, backs against the Weirwood.

'Tell me about Agathe.'

Sandor sighed. He pulled her closer to him, 'Sansa, I have never spoken of her.'

'Did Gregor really kill her?'

'Yes. That is true. He killed our father too. I am sure of it.'

'What was she like?'

'Kind to me. Gentle. Her eyes were blue.'

Sansa began to cry, she could not stop herself.

'Don't cry little bird. Do not pity me.'

'I don't pity you. I love you. I am crying because you have suffered so much pain.'

Sandor said, 'You have suffered too. Life is suffering.'

'No,' said Sansa, fiercely she grabbed his face and fixed him with a steely gaze, 'life is about love. We may live in a cruel world but we can turn our backs on that and just love each other.'

'You are right…love can win, in the end. Gregor is dead. But Sansa…'

'Yes?'

'What if I am cursed? For killing my brother?

Sansa kissed him, over and over she kissed his cheeks and mouth, 'You are not cursed,' she whispered, 'I can prove it.'

Weakly, softened by love and tenderness, he asked, 'How?'

'The Old Gods have blessed us. We are going to have a baby.'

One red leaf fell onto her lap and she picked it up and pressed it into his large hand.


	47. Chapter 47

'I told you to fucking build that wall back up. Did you think I was joking?'

'No, Ser Sandor,' the man quailed before the Hound's anger. He stared at the pile of rubble as if the force of his gaze might raise the wall back up and save him from this bollocking.

'I told you, I'm not a fucking Knight so stop calling me Ser or I'll rip your tongue out.' The Hound stomped off towards the main keep, 'Get on with it then,' he called back to the man who was trying to lift one of the stones and dropped it when he heard the Hound's gruff voice echo off the masonry.

Why was no one working like he wanted them to? Did they not realise the urgency? Sansa was pregnant. He had to protect her. She was going to have his baby. _A baby!_ Anyone could attack Winterfell at any moment. Jon was riding back to the wall in a few hours. They needed to decide what to do. This castle was not defendable, not with six rough brigands who could bugger off at any moment, especially if he kept shouting at them. _A baby!_ What should they do? Go North? Return South? Stay here? What damn foolish kind of plan was that? A road to death, that's what. They couldn't defend this place, not on their own. They had to leave, but where? The questions swirled around his head making him feel angry; he wanted a solution and he wanted it now: he was thinking in days. Moons were slipping through his fingers. Waxing and waning like an apple turning in his palm; he couldn't stop the months from passing. The soft time it took to grow a babe- four hundred days, only four hundred. How many had already passed? Sixty? Ninety? Sandor growled to himself; a low rumbling deep in his chest. He stopped and held out his hands. He imagined the wet, slippery newborn being delivered into his palms. Slowly, he raised his hands and covered his face. He pressed against his eyes to stop himself weeping. _A baby, his own bloody baby!_

'I finished the wall, Se…Clegane.'

The Hound spun around to see the submissive shoulders and wary face of the sell-sword.

'Good. Good. Maxwell isn't it?'

'Yes, that's right.' The man straightened up slightly and fixed the Hound with a questioning look, 'What next?'

'Head out and take a look around the perimeter, report back to me in an hour.'

'Shall I take a horse?'

'Aye, or you could fly.'

Maxwell laughed and then seeing the Hound's expression changed the laugh into a cough, 'Your black beast looks fast, can I take him?'

'Yes, take him but I'll just have to cut off your hands first.'

'Right, yes, well no then, I won't, I will…I'll just go now, shall I? On a brown horse.'

'Bugger off you idiot…a hot breakfast will be here when you get back.' Sandor watched Maxwell race off. Once he was out of sight Sandor called him every curse word he could think of, all the while aware that it was really himself he was angry with. For not knowing what to do or where to go next; for having no plan to protect Sansa and Grendle. _And the baby!_

When she had told him in the Godswood it had taken all his words. He had nothing left inside him, he could only feel and it felt like the warmth of a summer day coursing though his cold veins. He had pressed Sansa against his heart so she could listen to his heartbeat, could hear how it was beating because of her. Now she was inside the castle sleeping and all he could think about was danger. Danger on every side of them and inside the womb of his wife was a tiny, creature with a miniature heartbeat that matched his own. Tiny, vulnerable, impossible to protect. Sighing deeply, Sandor kicked a pile of dirt so it sprayed up and covered him in dust which only made him curse more. He stamped into the kitchen and threw his huge body into the chair by the fire. For a few seconds he stared at the flames, his grey eyes golden from the sparks, then his gaze flicked across to the stretcher where the boy was sleeping. With a jolt, Sandor realised he was awake. Two pale eyes stared at him. A small smile, then Grendle said, 'Hello old dog.'

'How are you feeling my boy?' Sandor resisted the urge to get up and look Grendle over; he didn't want to alarm him.

'I'm alright I think… my head aches but I can move my legs and arms ok.' Grendle waggled each limb to demonstrate.

'You should stay there, until Sansa says you can get up.'

'Could you get me a drink please?'

'Yes. Just this once.'

Grendle laughed but it was a weaker version of his usual sniggers. The Hound sighed again. Would Grendle be back to his normal self again? What if Sansa's fears of internal injuries were realised? There was a jug of water on the table and the Hound poured them both a beaker. He took one to Grendle and helped him to sit up in his makeshift bed. Then he held the beaker by his mouth so the boy could drink. Each sip was laboured and difficult but they persevered until Grendle had drunk his fill and slumped back against his pillows. It was hard to look at the bruising on his face, it made the Hound feel both sad and angry. If Gregor wasn't already rotting outside he would kill him all over again. No one had touched the corpse, no one dared and the Hound did not want to go near it. Let him rot right there so his bones could be a warning to any marauders or invaders that came to Winterfell once they left._ Yes, we should leave this place_, thought the Hound.

'I want Sansa.'

'She is sleeping. She is exhausted. I told her to rest while she could.'

'I want Sansa…please.'

'She really needs to rest right now.'

'Will she wake up soon?'

The Hound sighed deeply for the third time. His eyes softened and he smiled as he gently brushed Grendle's mouse coloured hair back from his forehead. 'I'm glad you are alright, you gave us all a fright but you look back to your normal self now.'

'I look better? I feel rotten…please can you get Sansa?'

'You look very…um, healthy.' _What's one little lie compared to all the damn people I've killed? One lie is not a sin_. _Don't punish me for a lie!_ He got up, realising he was praying to the Old Gods under his breath, in public… Sandor rubbed his eyes again, shaking his head as if trying to rid his mind of thick clouds. What was happening to him? He felt exhausted, too many thoughts, too many feelings, too many people to love and try to keep alive.

The Hound said, 'I'll get her for you, don't you fret lad.'

The boy sank back against his pillows, relief stitched across his bruised skin like a pattern on a tapestry. As Sandor walked towards the staircase, Jon walked in to the kitchen, dropping a pile of rabbits on to the table. Sandor nodded at him, 'Talk to Grendle, whilst I wake Sansa up.'

'Is she well? You were a long time in the Godswood this morning.' Jon said, as he pulled his chair next to Grendle's bed and grinned at him. The boy smiled weakly back.

'She is fine. Grendle is fine. Everyone is fine,' growled the Hound and he stamped upstairs. He found the secret staircase behind the tapestry and called up to Sansa. He heard her moving down the stone steps and as she walked out into the corridor the light hit her hair and it glowed red; a bright colour against the dull grey stonework. Sandor brushed it from her forehead, 'It is growing again.'

'I quite like it short.' Her voice was soft, teasing him. 'It will be easier to look after if we are travelling far.'

'Should we leave Winterfell then?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'But are you sure little bird? This is your home.'

'It is dangerous here. Like you always warned me it would be. Don't try to please me. Keep us safe.'

Blue eyes smiled up into grey. Reaching for her, Sandor kissed her as if it was the first time again. Kissed her so she softened in his arms and he lifted her feet from the ground. Long moments passed. It was the kind of kiss that obliterates all thought. The kind that melts skin and flesh together so Sandor was surprised when they came apart so easily when he placed her gently back onto her feet again. They stood there awkward with lust, trying to catch their breath.

Eventually he said, 'Come, Grendle is awake and he is asking for you.'

'Why didn't you tell me straight away?' She hit him hard on the shoulder and ran down the corridor, disappeared around the corner with a flash of her blue dress.


	48. Chapter 48

Jon watched Sandor tending to the boy. He was quietly un-wrapping Grendle's bandages and muttering deep soothing words that Jon could not make out. Sansa stood by the long elm table measuring herbs into a pot of boiling water. It smelt of summer grass and flowers. Her face was focused, marked by a grey smudge of dust across her white cheek. Jon smiled. Sansa would have died before being dressed in leather breeches and a man's tunic. She would have fought with her nails and teeth before allowing her hair to be cropped short and appearing in public with dirt on her skin. How different she is, he marvelled, how completely unlike the girl she was. The fierce streak of pride was still there but it was now pride in her knowledge of herbs and the pride a mother feels about her child. Sansa would fight now, but it would be for Grendle or for that massive, brooding man she loved. Glancing up again he gazed at Sandor's scars. They no longer repulsed him, rather than a symbol of his wickedness they seemed to represent bravery. Jon was sharpening his sword and as he ran the whetstone along the middle of the edge to the tip he mediated on the events of the last few days. _The Hound as family,_ he thought and huffed silently in repressed laughter, _what on earth would Catelyn sa_y? _Well, she is past all care now. Like Father, lost to this world. _Jon felt his good humour evaporate as he thought about all the things he wished he could ask his father.

Standing up he came to stand beside Sansa. He rubbed his hand through his black curls and shuffled from foot to foot, 'May I help you?'

'No, thank you. I am finished now. Let us all sit together and break our fast. All the men are back now.'

Jon looked at the motley group of brigands sat around the table. They were laughing and joking with one another, swapping debauched tales from their years of selling their sword arms for the highest price. Sansa passed the hot tea to Sandor and Grendle. The boy took it eagerly; his strength seemed to be growing by the hour. His skin had lost the waxy sheen and he was smiling and talking to Sandor who was finishing tying the last bandage. Sansa was placing bowls of thick rabbit broth in front of them all. Jon passed out some bread still warm from the oven, enjoying the aroma and the feel of the warmth in his hands. Sandor was now feeding Grendle who was grappling with him for the spoon. The Hound said, 'Clearly you can manage.'

'Obviously. I don't need a nurse maid and not one as big and ugly as you.'

Chuckling, the Hound sat down at the head of table and Jon moved to sit to his left. Jon had been momentarily disgruntled when he had seen the Hound sit there the first night after the battle, after all this was his castle now, left to him by Robb. It was his right as the head of house Stark to sit there. However, the Hound was older than him and he felt certain deference towards him. There was no doubt he was the greater warrior. The sound of Sandor's ferocious and heartbroken screams as he punched Gregor's head were impossible to forget. No doubt, every man sat at this table was a little afraid of the Hound but Jon did not fear him, he respected him and for now he was happy to let Sandor lead the little group. They would be leaving soon anyway. Gripping his spoon and shovelling the hot food into his mouth Jon ran through his mind the tasks that needed doing before they could go to the Wall. The food was good and he mumbled his thanks to Sansa who smiled at him. It stopped him short, just as he was about to lift the spoon so it hung there dripping the broth onto the table.

'You look so much like your mother.'

'She's a damn sight prettier than Cat Stark ever was.'

'You Ser, are biased.' Sansa threw a careless and pretty smile towards him and the Hound grimaced slightly, choosing to ignore her provocative address. Instead he carefully aimed and chucked his piece of bread at her, so it hit her on the shoulder.

'That was a waste of bread,' she glared, but Jon could see she was trying not to laugh.

The men around the table broke into guffaws of laughter and the rest of the meal was spent in cheerful conversation. After they had finished they left Sansa and Grendle and went out into the courtyard. The Hound sent the men off to do different tasks. Groom and saddle the horses. Scout out the surrounding countryside. Pack supplies.

'Come with me, we need to speak in private' he said to Jon. They walked out through the courtyards towards the ruin of Wintertown. Sandor drew him into the husk of a building. It was dark, musty with soot and decay. There was also a chill in the blackened walls. For the life of him Jon could not recollect what this building used to be, before the sacking and it saddened him that so much had happened that he couldn't recall the days before. The innocence of those times was superseded by the memory of what was beyond the wall, the memory of being told about his father's death, Robb's death…the little ones. And the worry that kept surfacing in his mind. _Arya._ She was with the Bolton's. He should be helping her. Jon kicked the rubble that lay at his feet. The smell of burnt timber was sickening. He felt the Hound grasp his forearm and steady him.

'That won't help. I should know. I nearly broke my foot when we arrived here.'

'I feel so frustrated. Arya is…'

'That viscous little kid can look after herself. You could fight your way in there and find her sat on a throne with Ramsay's head for a cushion. Don't do anything rash. Wait, is my advice to you Jon Snow. You have duties at the Wall, you have said so many times. Return there.'

'Are you coming with me?'

'I am undecided,' Sandor sat down on a fallen beam, 'Would we be safe there?'

'I cannot promise anything but Castle Black is well defended from enemies. Whichever way they attack.'

'And would they accept Sansa there?'

'I would make them accept her.'

Sandor smiled at Jon's fierce expression. 'Would they accept a babe?'

'A baby? Is Sansa…is she going…?'

'Yes. I don't know when. But you see how I need to find somewhere that will be safe. Peaceful. Quiet. Somewhere for a child to live beyond all this shit.' He swung his arm to encompass all the desolation that surrounded them.

Jon stared at him. A baby was a difficult thing to take into account. It seemed like the worst thing to bring into this dark world but at the same time it felt like a bright and piercing ray of sunshine that cut through all the blackness and death. Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Jon said, 'Peace you say. Quiet. The Quiet Isle.'

'What? What nonsense are you babbling about? The fucking Quiet Isle? Do I look like a bloody prie…' Sandor's voice slowed to a whisper and then silence, then he said, 'A priest.'

'Yes, you were disguised as one before, why not again.'

'No women are allowed there, just like your Crow Keep.'

'Sansa looks like a boy. Grendle would be accepted.'

'They would take one look at Sansa's belly and know she was not a fucking woman.'

'In time, yes, but perhaps once you were there they would protect you.'

Jon watched as Sandor grappled with idea. He could see him running the variants through his mind, working out the odds of success and danger.

'It could work. The mouth of the Trident is not too far to travel to, although there would be a myriad of dangers,' said Sandor.

'There is a problem.'

'There is a whole bloody mass of problems. Tell me another one.'

'Everyone in the Seven Kingdom's thinks you are dead, they think Sansa is dead, they don't care or even know about Grendle,' said Jon.

'Aye, that is a good thing surely?'

'Yes, of course, but there are six men out there who know differently. Even if I take them with me to the Wall, they might talk. News might spread. You say Baelish and Bolton both have reason to hunt Sansa down. It would not be safe for me to take them. They only obey you.'

'They cannot come with us to the Quiet Isle,' Sandor stood up and began to pace around the small space.

'No. That is not an option.'

Sandor stopped. His huge frame dominated the room and the set of shoulders was determined. Jon couldn't help taking a small pace back from him.

'Obviously,' said the Hound, 'there is only one option. I will do what I do best.'

'You can't kill them all on your own. I will help you.'

'They don't deserve death, or perhaps they do. Each man carries his own guilt and they have lived a life of brutality,' Sandor put his hand on Jon's shoulder and fixed him with an angry look, 'but then so have I.'

'You have killed men but you do this for Sansa and the baby. It is the only choice.'

'The Old Gods might judge me.'

Jon stood tall now and he spoke firmly, 'This is my family home, we are closely entwined with the Old Gods and I know it in my soul that killing to protect your family is not killing, but survival.'

'I know that killing is the sweetest thing there is,' said the Hound to Jon Snow.


	49. Chapter 49

He waited until midday and they had all returned and reported back; eager and keen to please him, like a bunch of sycophantic young pups. He could see the fear that flickered across their faces when they looked at him, despite them all trying to wear a mask of friendliness. They were gathered in the inner courtyard watching him, an air of brittle curiosity surrounded them; he could tell they were eager to leave Winterfell. Sandor passed them all a small bone cup and Jon poured brandy into them, salvaged from a deep cellar, it was strong and aromatic; obviously expensive. Sandor watched them knock back the alcohol in greedy gulps. Then he asked them to accompany him into the countryside outside of the castle, past the ruined Wintertown, into the windswept landscape. They followed him without question and Sandor Clegane felt an unfamiliar headache creeping up the back of his skull. Nevertheless, he walked ahead with Jon taking the rear guard. The six men, their names not fully bedded into his conscious mind, so they all seemed interchangeable to him, were jocular. Whistling. Teasing each other. Asking Jon questions about taking the black.

'Celibate? You got to be bloody kidding me. There is no way I am giving up the chance to stick my massive man sword into a wench.'

'No women? No one told me that. No chance of that.'

'Nor me. I ain't taking no black robes. You can give us our coin an we'll be off down South.'

'You taking the black, Hound? Bet you couldn't give up your red-headed filly?'

The Hound turned around to look at the tall one who had spoken, 'You should not have said that. It wasn't wise to mention Sansa.'

Sandor heard the hiss as Jon drew his sword; the men were too fixated on the Hound's last comment to notice the threat standing behind them. The young Crow had the same expression in his obsidian eyes that Ned Stark used to have: resolute and unflinching, an absolute belief in his authority and moral duty. Sandor held those dark eyes for a moment; agreement flickered between the two of them. Execute them all.

Sandor said, 'I told you once I would kill you all for invading my Lady's Keep. A Hound never lies.'

The men were not expecting it, that much was obvious. They shouted, shuffled, tried to flee. Jon killed three of them before they had time to draw their weapons. The Hound simply grabbed two of them and smashed their skulls together. Once they fell to the floor, he casually pulled out his dagger and took their lives, muttering a prayer for mercy from the Old Gods, _do not punish me for this. Do not hurt the baby or Sansa. Do not take Grendle from us._

The last fellow had drawn his sword and was standing a few feet away, facing Jon who held his own sword out towards him with a look of menace upon his face.

'Why? Why?' The man was almost incoherent with rage, 'I thought we were friends now. I thought we worked for you now.'

'Friends?' The Hound barked with laughter, 'I don't have any friends. You worked for Gregor, that alone means you are guilty of evil deeds.'

Jon said, 'You have no doubt killed innocents in your time so stop this act.'

'I don't care who you have or haven't killed. I would kill you even if you were a nun,' said Sandor, 'you are a danger to my family.'

The man shrieked and tried to attack Jon who parried the blow easily. The man stumbled on his long legs and fell to the floor.

'Drop the sword,' said Jon and he dragged the man to a kneeling position, 'bow your head. I sentence you to die and the man who gives the sentence should carry out the execution, my father taught me that. So I am going to kill you myself.'

Sandor listened as the man sobbed like a child. So many cried when death was near. Others would become stoic, others embraced death with a laugh. _I wonder,_ he thought, _how death will come for Jon Snow? How will he come for me?_ He mused on how he thought his time had come, when Gregor had stood above him, but he had resisted death with rage. Sandor starred at the sobbing sell-sword who was begging for mercy, where was his rage? Why didn't he fight back? He was muttering about an old lady. No doubt someone he had killed in his miserable past. _He must think he deserves this death._

The wind had picked up and it was whistling over the dull grey-green grass. The slate stones and granite rocks added to the miserable landscape. _Not one I would have chosen for my last_, thought the Hound. Jon Snow was standing above the condemned man. His black cloak was bristling in the breeze like a live animal. Jon's hair was whipping around his face but there was no mistaking the mannerisms that he had learnt from his dead father. He looked like a noble King. It didn't take long. With one blow the head was severed from the neck and arterial blood pumped onto the earth. Sandor recognised the blood lust running through Jon as he watched him pick up the dead man's head and brandish it towards the north, to where the wall stood invisible to them but impossible to forget. The barrier between them and all the horrors that lurked behind, far worse than all the plotting and evil that dominated the Seven Kingdoms. Sandor believed Jon's tales of white walkers and armies of free people, but they were not his priority; he only cared about Sansa and Grendle. The rest of the Seven Kingdom's could deal with white walkers without the Hound's help. Fuck them all.

Jon shouted, 'Winter _is_ coming.' His voice seemed to be answered by the whipping wind, sharp echoes and fell voices made inhuman sounds.

'We should get back.'

Jon slumped slightly, dropped the head on the floor. Sandor passed him a rag to wipe the blood from his hand, 'Brandy?'

'Yes, chase this cold from my blood.'

Sandor took a swig and passed the bottle to Jon who took a long pull. He coughed and shook his head, smiling. Then he took another and held the brandy bottle by his thigh, 'You are wrong you know.'

'Wrong?' Sandor slung his sword into the scabbard and looked at Jon.

Jon passed him the brandy and smacked him on the arm, 'You do have a friend. I don't murder people to help out acquaintances; I only do this kind of thing for my friends.'

'Family,' grunted Sandor, 'You did it because of Sansa.'

'I did it for her, yes, but I also did it for you…my friend.'


	50. Chapter 50

They had decided to take a small, covered wagon for Grendle to lie in. The boy was insisting he could ride but it seemed more sensible to let him rest a little longer. Sansa watched Sandor carry Grendle from the kitchen and place him on the boards. Grendle was muttering but Sansa shushed him. She wrapped some blankets over him and placed the remaining packs in there so he could lean against them. Jon was saddling his horse with a grim expression on his face. An expression that was reflected in her husband's face; something had occurred between them. Something Sansa was determined to extract from one or the other, but right now she was following their lead and preparing to leave in silence. Sandor tied two horses behind the wagon and harnessed Stranger to the front.

'Have you got everything you want to take?'

Sansa bristled at his tone. No tenderness, no 'little bird' or calling her 'wife.' Just a barked out question or a rough order.

'Yes. I have everything.' She turned her back on him and climbed up into the wagon and sank down next to Grendle who turned away from the leather pack he was leant against. He put his head on her lap and she stroked his head, 'Go to sleep, Grendle, you might as well try and get your strength back.'

Obediently, he closed his eyes without protest. Absentmindedly, she let herself think back over the last few months, trying to plot the days since she last had her moon blood. It was when she was captive in Harrenhal; she had been too embarrassed to ask for rags. How many days had passed since then? Two full moons had passed, she was almost certain. Her memories were hazy. It felt like they had spent weeks with Pearl but it had only been days. Likewise, the trip North and the vile journey on the sea had gone so slowly that it had seemed like a year; each tired step an hour. Grendle's hair felt like silk between her fingers. Sansa remembered the feeling of silk, she had worn dresses made of it in King's Landing. Grendle's hair felt softer. He was snoring softly. He sounded like an old, arthritic cat that Arya had once adopted and carried around with her. She made Sansa have it on their bed and the thing had been smelly and scratchy. Smiling at the unexpected memory, Sansa strained her ears trying to hear Sandor and Jon talking outside the wagon but their voices were too deep to discern any words.

Sansa felt the wagon sway and move as Sandor hefted his huge body into the seat. He was dressed in the thick, brown woollen robe that Grendle had stolen for him. Gently, Sansa moved Grendle's head and placed it onto a blanket. Then she gingerly stepped into the front, trying not to lose her balance as the wagon jolted over the clumps of mud, and sat down next to Sandor on the wooden seat. Jon was riding ahead of them and she watched him pick his path though the ruts in the road. Sansa was glad they had already left the castle. She resisted the urge to lean out of the wagon and look back at it. It was best to keep looking forward, to look at her brother in his black cloak.

She felt Sandor's hand on her leg and she turned to look up at him. He smiled at her from the depths of his hood. Sansa instantly felt immense relief, 'I thought you were angry with me.'

'No, little bird, I'm not angry with you. Angry with myself, but never with you.'

'What has happened? What were you and Jon talking about?

Sandor put his arm around her and pulled her against him. He fussed with his robe so she could slip beneath it and lean into his warmth.

'We killed the sell-swords.'

Sansa didn't gasp or cry out, she just said, 'Yes, I can see why that had to happen.'

Sandor pulled at the reins and halted Stranger. 'You are not upset? I thought perhaps, I mean you were so insistent about us not killing people.'

'They might have told someone that you lived. The story of you killing Gregor was too exciting not to share. Killing them was very sensible.' Her tone of voice sounded like a scolding Septa discussing the best way to rid a room of wasps.

Sandor burst out laughing and he kissed her fully on the mouth. Sansa smiled, placing her hands on his cheeks, 'They were no innocents, my husband, I have listened to their talk these last two days. They were rapists and murderers. One of them tried to embrace me in the kitchen.'

Sandor went pale, he tried to speak but he was choking on his words.

'Do not worry. I stuck my dagger in his hand and he thought better of it. After I cleaned the wound and made him a hot cup of tea. I said, he must have a fever because touching me equalled death, or worse and then I told him that I would tell you if he even looked at me again.'

'Sansa you always surprise me.' They kissed again, but hurrridly, aware they they needed to keep moving, that nowhere was safe. Sandor flicked the reins and Stranger pulled the wagon forward, his huge legs taking the strain.

It was icy cold in the afternoon air. Sansa shuffled inside his robe again and embraced him. 'Anyway,' she said, 'You forget that I was with Grendle and he said straight away that you would kill them before we left Winterfell. He thinks like you think. He said, _there is a time to wait and a time_…'

'A time to kill,' said the Hound.

'Exactly, a time to kill. He said you taught him that.'

'I did. I am the worst father ever.' He laughed softly as he said it but Sansa could hear the doubt in his deep voice.'

'Clearly, you are an incredible father. Any man that can love another man's child as his own is a kind and generous person. Also, you are very useful at keeping us alive which is surely the foremost skill of a father.' She folded her arms as she said it in a very stern tone, as if that was the last word on it.

'You always make me laugh, Sansa Stark. I have smiled more in these past few months, than the entirety of my life before I took you as my wife.'

'Thank the Gods then for Joffrey Baratheon.' This time they both laughed, loud enough for Jon to turn his horse and trot back to see what the noise was about.

'What is it?' He called to them, 'Everything alright?'

'Just marital business,' shouted Sansa, watching him grin and wheel his horse around to take the lead again. Then she said to Sandor, 'I wish you would get my name right, it is Sansa Clegane these days.'

'Yes, yes. Lady Clegane, my wife. Are you not going to ask me where we are headed wife? Or has Grendle read my mind already and informed you of where we are going?'

'Not the Wall, that is my guess, but I have no clue. Where?'

'The Quiet Isle.'

'Oh. A place for male penitents who believe in the Seven Gods. I believe that a pregnant woman and a boy who curses and blasphemes every other word will fit in perfectly. Not forgetting the fact we have recently renounced the Seven in favour of the Old Gods, yes…I think it sounds like the ideal hiding place.'

A small voice, newly instilled with vigour, drifted from between the curtains in the back of the wagon, 'Sansa, I hear there is still a room available in Harrenhal.'

'You cheeky little bugger,' said Sansa, putting her hand over her mouth as the swearword slipped out.

'That's right. I am. And now I am going to be a Brother of the Quiet Isle.'

'They have a vow of silence there,' said Sandor, 'did I not mention that?'

'Oh bloody, fucking seven hells.'

'Indeed. You are fucked. I may have to cut your tongue off Grendle, before we get there.'

'Shut up, old dog.'


	51. Chapter 51

'A month, by my reckoning,' Jon looked up and down the King's Road as if reminding himself of the distances, 'in that wagon, a month. On the horses sooner, two or three weeks perhaps but you will have to stop often to rest them. But Sansa cannot ride, surely?'

'I don't think it will hurt the baby,' Sansa said, but she didn't sound convinced.

'I suggest you keep with your disguises. Stay in the wagon and head South as if you have every right to use the King's Road. No one is looking for you. Say you are returning to the Quiet Isle after a pilgrimage North.'

'Yes, I think it might work. We do not look worthy of robbing, that's for sure.' Sandor glanced at the muck encrusted wagon. He had purposely chosen the ugliest and oldest specimen that had survived the sacking. It had parts hanging off and a misshapen roof. Underneath it was sound and would make the journey, but it gave off a shabby and neglected air.

'It will be right into the heart of matters. Past the Twins where Robb and Mother…'

Jon put his arm around Sansa and the two of them embraced, 'We will have our revenge on the Frey's and the Lannister's and all of those bastards who did this. I vow to you Sansa, each of them will answer for their crime to us.'

'I believe you Jon, I do. But my thoughts are not filled with vengeance but fear. I am so afraid to go South. Do you really think the Quiet Isle is a plausible hiding place? I want us to go with you, go North.'

'Sansa, I really want you to go South. The North will be battling creatures far worse than any Lannister or Frey. Monsters that you cannot imagine. I have seen them and soon winter will creep down the country, past the wall. You cannot be there when that happens.'

'Jon is right. We must listen to him,' said Sandor, 'North is not the place for us.'

'This my advise: go to the Quiet Isle. Stay there and have the baby. It will give Sandor and Grendle time to recover properly. Although your husband is disguising it well, he is in agony from that broken arm because he is not resting it. The journey in the wagon will help his arm. You can drive the horse easily enough, Sansa, and Grendle can rest in the back. The Quiet Isle will give you all time to gather your strength.'

'What if they won't accept us there?' Sansa was wringing her hands together.

'I cannot answer that, except to say you must make them.'

'And then?' Sandor was leaning against the wagon. He looked like a fierce bear rather than a meek and penitent priest.

'Then, when the baby is safely delivered, you should cross the narrow sea and go as far South as you can. Far from the snow and ice and the white walkers.'

'But the Men of the Night's Watch can fight them can't they? You will beat them?'

'Sansa, I don't know. These creatures are monstrous. Truly terrifying and deadly. You would need a dragon to destroy something as cold and evil as they are. Do you have a spare dragon Grendle?'

Grendle was sat on the bench seat of the wagon. He was bundled in blankets but his face was alert and cheerful, 'I'm sorry. I think I left it at Winterfell.'

'Well, without one I don't think men have much chance against the white horror, but the Night's Watch will fight until the last man standing.'

Sandor moved to stand next to them, 'Will you eat with us before heading off?'

'I must go. I need to use the last of this light before night falls so I can get as far North as possible. Don't forget Bolton's men are taking anyone prisoner they can find. It is chaos everywhere.'

'You are right, we must keep moving whilst it is light.' Sandor held out his hand and Jon clasped it, 'Until we meet again, stay safe.'

'I will endeavour to stay alive. I want to meet my nephew one day.'

'Or niece,' laughed Sansa, putting her arms around them both.

Jon held the embrace for a moment and then he walked over to Grendle and gave him a squat, black dagger made of shining stone, 'This is something I found at The Fist of The First Men. It is made of Dragonglass. There were arrowheads and spear points and a few knives. This is the smallest one but it would fit your hand. Perhaps you could keep it to remember me by.' He hugged Grendle then he turned around and gave them all his most charming smile, 'We shall meet again and next time I will bring Arya with me, at least pray to the Old Gods that it will be so.'

He jumped onto his horse and with a final wave and flourish of his massive black cape, he was gone. Sansa could feel tears behind her eyelids, it had only been three days but she had grown used to having him around. They had so many years to catch up on. She could only hope that he was right about them meeting again and she dared not think about Arya. It was too painful to even hope they would see her in the future. The sun was lowering in the sky, turning from yellow to orange. Time was slipping though the world and it would soon be night. The shadows of the trees seemed to be drawing closer to the road. They moved to the wagon and climbed in beside Grendle. He was turning the Dragonglass blade over in his fingers, his face mournful, 'I liked him.'

'Yes, he is a good person,' said Sandor, 'One of only a few I have ever met in all these long years.'

'We're good,' said Grendle.

'Hmmm…Sansa is. I'm not so sure about you.'

'I'm a good person!'

'You're a good liar and an efficient killer.'

'Well you are the best killer in the Seven Kingdoms.'

'Is there any hope for us then, on an Island comprised of fucking sanctimonious holy men?

'Firstly you probably should refrain from calling them 'fuckers' and try to curb your wicked tongue,' said Sansa with a chuckle as she retied the strapping on his arm so he couldn't use it, 'there, that should help with the pain. Can you stop swearing and trying to kill people?'

'No hope of that,' grumbled the Hound.

Sansa took the reins and the wagon moved off. The two horses followed behind. They appeared to be a group of dirty, hopeless pilgrims unexplainably rich in horse flesh. Their chances rested on not meeting anyone who needed horses. Or a wagon. All three of them were silently praying to all and any God they could think of.


	52. Chapter 52

A lark was following them. Its call came from the boughs of the brooding pine trees and as they journeyed south it lingered in the red and brown leaves of the deciduous trees. At least Grendle was sure it was following them as he lay in the cramped, dark space of the wagon. The trilling and rising notes sounded so pretty. He wasn't sure if it was a lark but his Grandmother used to tell stories about larks, about how they were birds with perfect voices; this bird voice sounded perfect to him. If Sansa was a bird she would sound like that. The Hound thinks she is his little bird, he thought.

The wagon was uncomfortable but he was used to the jolting and swaying. They travelled slowly and only stopped so Stranger could rest. Sometimes hitching one of the other horses and carrying on. The road was not easy to follow, being just a bridleway over fields and sometimes a muddy track; the horses could be relied upon though to keep to the right direction and not veer off and get them stuck in the mud and thick grass that bordered it. Sometimes they stopped in a village and brought supplies but they always slept in the wagon. Although progress was slow, it was steady and they were heading south. They had passed through the boggy lands by the Neck, passed undisturbed through Moat Cailin. One guard looked into the wagon but had been quick to wave them through when Sansa had muttered about leprosy. Grendle had made some sickening groaning noises and the wagon rolled on along the causeway that made up the Kingsroad in that wet, swampy area.

They were now past the Neck and the road was much improved – the journey smoother and faster. They were in the Frey lands now and Sansa was nervous. She sat on the front of the wagon, insisting on holding the reins so Sandor could rest his arm. The bone had set and he was moving it without pain now but she still fussed over him. How he had survived that awful assault from Gregor was a miracle. It still haunted her dreams and she would often wake in the cloying darkness of the night and grab at him to make sure he was there, that he hadn't died in the mud at Winterfell. When she felt his body, warm beside her, Sansa would almost cry with relief. She knew it was wrong to rely on one person so much, after all Pearl had warned her about it, but she could not imagine her life without him. She was having to drink tea steeped with an old twisted root of ginger to calm her sickness. All food repulsed her but she ate it in small mouthfuls, aware that she must eat to grow the baby inside her. Sandor didn't fuss over her but he would often place his large hand across her belly and kiss her. Grendle was unsurprised about the baby, saying he had expected it, all the kissing and sentimental nonsense he had to put up with, 'I do know where babies come from, for Gods sake and it isn't storks or little elves.'

They had stopped the wagon at twilight and let the horses free to feed in the lush, long grass that made up the flood plane lands that surrounded the Twins. Sansa had made a campfire and Grendle offered to catch some dinner. He was stronger now, he seemed to have no lasting ill effects from Gregor's fist, although he carried a dark scar under his eye socket and a patch of hair had not grown back on the side of head where it had smashed into the wall. After a muttered discussion about whether to let him go hunting, Sandor nodded.

'I know, I know…be careful. You have turned into such a worrywart since you became my father.'

The Hound had been left speechless by that but Sansa had dissolved into laughter by the firelight, her white skin looking luminous lit by the dancing flames.

'And now we are alone, for a little while.'

'What are you thinking we could do to fill the time?' Sansa was feeding the fire with small bits of kindling and each piece she threw in made it flare up with little sparks.

'I don't know. Pull off those tight, tempting breeches and have you by this fire.' The Hound moved so he could push her gently to the floor and began to pull at her waist.

'I am a pregnant lady, don't be so uncouth.' She was smiling though and helping him to untie her breeches.

'Remember when you wanted to turn away from me so I could stroke you between your legs,' Sandor was kissing her neck now and moving his hands over her thighs, 'you thought that was the only way to do it.'

'I was so naïve.' Sansa murmured, intent on his mouth, the full sardonic lips, the hard scar tissue that was so familiar to her now.

'I was a brute who took you like a stallion takes a mare whilst we hid from murderous men.'

'Mmm,' she smiled, 'I still think about it.'

'My little bird,' he said, kissing her bare shoulder, 'you are like honey, I cannot get enough of you.' He hitched her up so her head was lying on his forearm and she began to fret about his broken arm, 'Be still Sansa, it is healed enough to do this,' and one hand moved between her legs and she closed her eyes and let him part her thighs. Soft, warm feelings like tender lightening bolts moved up her backbone and she trembled as she pushed her hands up his shirt and felt his back and shoulders. He was so magnificent, she thought as she wrapped her legs around his hips and they rocked together. It didn't take long; they were too delighted with each other. Which, was a good thing, because it was only a few moments later they heard Grendle stamping though the bushes, and they hastily fixed their clothing. He had a pair of coneys and he threw them at Sandor who began to skin them with a sharp knife. Sansa was sat in a dream soft haze with her pile of kindling scattered around the floor next to her.

'I can creep through the landscape without a sound, you know that don't you?'

'We know Grendle and we appreciate it,' said Sansa, 'You are a good boy.'

'I'm good now am I?'

'You are always good you annoying little sod, don't expect me to say it every day though.' Sandor threw him the wine skin and the three of them sat down to wait for the rabbit to stew. Sansa began to sing a high little note, trilling the song under her breath. Sandor thought of it as her mothering song, the inner thoughts of the baby she carried.

'The lark,' said Grendle, 'you are the lark I could hear.' And he crept next to her so she could cuddle him beside the fire.


	53. Chapter 53

It was going too well. Something had to break, like a bone or a skull. Crack open like a festering wound, but what? Blood was going to spill, iron thick on the cobbles of this port. Would someone recognize one of them? Or would it be a common thug who decided to attack just because he wanted to kill someone, take revenge for the sacking of this dreadful town. The Saltpans stank of dead fish and misery. Everything was burned, only the small castle still stood. They were so close to Harrenhal, in the shadow of the trident and the Twins, only a few days journey from King's Landing. They were in the heart of everything and Sandor could feel it clenching him; squeezing his ribcage and making him gasp for air. He had never been afraid before, not fear like this. Fear of fire, fear of Gregor, fear of death. None of those were real fears...they were illusions of own cowardice, he thought with disgust. The fear of losing someone you love heightens all feelings to a point, like a needle, it is the pure feeling that without them you too will die. He took some deep breathes and held onto the side of the wagon. It was parked up by the dock. Grendle had gone off, to scout for information and get some wine. By the Gods, Sandor needed a drink of Dornish red. He needed to get control of his fear, it was harming their chances. Sansa was quite strong and resolute, sitting in the wagon; she looked like a teenage boy, her hair freshly cropped by the Hound's loving hands. He had kept the copper scraps of hair and pushed them into his pockets like a lovesick fool. I will be making songs up about her next, he mused. She looked too beautiful to be a boy. Her curved forehead in profile, the elegant nose, she stared straight ahead. Sansa was focused on getting across the water and onto the Quiet Isle; like it was the answer to all their problems and not a ridiculous idea thought up by Jon Snow who was now miles away; fighting God knows what kind of frozen monster. The salt in the air clung to Sandor's tongue, viscous and sickening. Gulls wheeled in the grey air, turning lazily in the breeze, their yellow beaks hooked for any scrap of food they could scavenge. Their squalling calls sounded like people dying on a battlefield.

The Isle lay across the river, south of the Saltpans. Thick mudflats surrounded it when the tide was out, and then the water would seep back in like eels slithering through the mud and gushing around it so the only access was with a ferry. The island was hard to discern in the mist and drizzle. Sandor was keen to get over there now. He walked, slightly stooping and with a limp, his brown robe dragging slightly in the mud. He headed to a few tumbledown shacks that littered the edge of the dock. The ferryman was sat playing dice with another slovenly looking oaf. Neither of them looked up when he approached.

'How much is it to cross?'

One of the men, a yellow tinged fellow, looked up and spat into the mud, 'Well, Brother, has it been so long since you visited that you have forgotten there is no charge to the Quiet Isle for the penitent?'

Sandor heaved a deep sigh from his chest. Did he have to kill these two fools now? Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall, slim shape move from the shadows of the building. Shrouded in a dun coloured robe, he extended one arm out with his fingertips extended from the hanging, bell shaped sleeves, 'My brother,' he said, 'it has been too long, I am sure you are fatigued after your long journey. Follow me.' The two gamblers immediately returned to their game, no longer interested in the priests. The man moved past Sandor and began to move away from the dock. He turned and beckoned for the Hound to follow.

Sandor had no choice but to limp after him. He gestured to Sansa to wait in the wagon. He had no idea where Grendle was, but he trusted him to keep out of trouble whilst he dealt with this new madness. The breeze was picking up, swirling the water in the bay. The gulls continued their endless circling, shrill voices joining the wind to make discordant vowels. The priest led Sandor into the ramshackle inn and up the staircase. He opened a door housed in a sagging doorframe, through which Sandor had to stoop low to miss the lintel.

There was a merry little fire burning in the hearth and another priest waiting in a high backed chair. He turned and pushed back his hood to reveal grey hair clipped short. He had green eyes and they were set deep in his face. They stared at Sandor with undisguised curiosity, 'Come,' he said, 'come, be seated by the fire. Warm yourself. No doubt you have a long tale to tell.'

'What is going on?' Someone tell me before I throw you all out of the window.'

The two priests looked at each other and chuckled. The younger one said, 'I suppose the disguise works as long as your don't speak.'

'Firstly, will you tell us your name? Your real name. Then if you are who we think you are we can continue this conversation with more honesty between us.' The grey haired man tipped his head on one side, a slight smile turned his lips up.

Feeling like a badger cornered by two inquisitive terriers, he said, 'My name is Sandor Clegane. You already know that, obviously.' He pushed his hood back and straightened his back and shoulders. In the small room his body was too big, his head brushing the ceiling.

A variety of expressions flashed briefly across their faces; fear, wonder and interest. 'Well, you are who we thought, that is now cleared up.'

Sandor couldn't help raising his fist and brandishing it at them, 'How did you know I was coming here? Tell me.'

'Patience…Brother Clegane. All will be revealed to you. Won't you sit with us?Take some mead. Your friends will be safe out there. You have nothing to fear.' The grey haired one waved a hand over a stool and the other brought a cup and passed it to Sandor. He sat down, blinking rapidly, looking around as if someone was about to jump out. That bloody Jamie Lannister, he's just the type to make an elaborate hoax like this just to torture me before he sticks the knife in. But no blond man jumped out. The priests waited whilst he gathered his thoughts. Silence filled the room like the depths of a well, cold and remote.

Eventually the older priest spoke, 'No doubt you are very curious but we are equally curious about you. My name is Brother Althas, this is Brother Flea.'

'Flea?'

'An unfortunate name, no? But here we do not care about insubstantial things like names. Flea is as good a name as any.'

'As interesting as this is can you just cut the crap and tell me what the hells is going on?'

'Yes, Sandor. We are Priests who have served many years as penitents on the Quiet Isle and now we live back on the mainland, travelling, helping those who need us.'

'Very noble of you.'

'Noble? No it is just the least we can do for the people in this world.'

'I feel like holding a knife to your throat until you tell me why you know me.'

'Your temper is as ferocious as rumours asserted.' Flea poured another glass of sweet mead, 'The Elder Brother on the Isle asked us to meet you here and tell you that you are welcome to live there for as long as you need.'

Althas smiled sadly, 'Perhaps you could curb that impatient, fierce nature though, you will need to live as a penitent man. Do you have reasons to be penitent?'

The Hound pulled in a deep breath and said with annoyance, 'Yes, I have sinned, you already know that.'

'But we also know many of the evil things attributed to you were not done by you. Another man sacked this town, raped a child, whilst wearing your dog helmet.'

The Hound slumped in his chair, 'the poor child,' then he sat forward, 'who did that, they need to be punished?'

'That is not your path, my brother, your role is to go to the Qiuet Isle and think about your sins. Live in silence, tend to your family.'

Pulling his dagger from his belt, Sandor turned it over in hand, feeling the sharp edge. 'I feel like this was meant to happen, yet I cannot explain why. I have longed for peace and silence for a long time, somewhere to keep my family safe. Although you have still avoided answering my questions.'

Althas got up and clasped his shoulder, 'that is because we do not know. We only know that we were to meet you here and pass on the message that you are welcome. The Elder Brother will answer any questions.'

'Your secret is entirely safe with us,' said Flea, 'we are travelling tonight to different corners of the Seven Kingdoms to help the fragile and abused. This meeting will be but smoke and ashes in the grate.'

'The tide is full. You should catch the ferry this evening.'

Flea smiled, his features softened with amusement, 'If you can extract your boy from the bakery behind the inn. He has been gorging on buns and cakes for the last few hours and is now asleep next to the oven.'


	54. Chapter 54

The hill was steeper than it looked so by the time they reached the top and stood before the wooden Sept they were all breathing hard. They dropped their packs onto the grassy slope. Sansa looked at the view, admiring it. The bay of Crabs was just disappearing into the evening light, the moon hitting the water making rippling patterns of white. The whole place was dominated by the smell of the sea where it joined the mouth of the Trident. To Sansa it smelt fresh and wholesome, cleansing. She turned to trace her fingers on the likeness of the Mother that had been carved into the wooden door. On the other door was the Father, chiselled with careful detail into the dark wood. She found that immensely comforting; it reminded her so vividly of Catelyn. This was the religion she had been brought up in. The Stark children had been raised in the faith of the Seven but it always felt optional, like a cloak to be put on and off, they questioned it as they watched Ned trek into the Godswood to sit next to the weeping Weirwood. Catelyn though, was fierce in her belief and out of all her children Sansa was the one who had wanted to be exactly like her mother so she had dutifully leant all the hymns and the liturgy. The words were running through her mind now, familiar, meditative. Yet she had felt the power standing in the Godswood and she now believed her father had been right in his belief. Perhaps they were both right and it is beyond us mortals to explain it, she murmured to herself.

Darkness fell like a soft shroud over the land. Hiding the windmill, the terraced fields and fishponds from their view. It was obviously a prosperous, well maintained place. Self-sufficient, not reliant on the mainland so there would not be many visitors. It could really be safe, Sansa thought, hope filling her heart with a tiny golden light. She puzzled over the two strange priests and what they had told Sandor. Rightly, they should be afraid of this bizarre set of circumstances, yet they walked willingly onto the feery and led Stranger off with a light and hopeful air. A young priest had taken the wagon and horses, smiling gently at them but not speaking to them and Grendle had grumbled again about the vow of silence that bound the penitents on the Isle. Sansa had reassured him that in private they would be able to talk and it would do him good to obey some rules for a change. As the priest left them he pointed to the Sept that dominated the brow of the hill. As they had walked up the slope, they quietly discussed what might be waiting for them but after a while they too fell into silence, admiring the beauty of the place. Now they stood before the lead lined windows, the massive carved doors loomed over them and they let the darkness caress them with peace and quiet.

'Come in, penitents.' The voice was deep, sonorous with a gruff edge that just stopped the words from sounding like a sweet song.

Stepping inside into total blackness, the three of them waited. One by one, candles were being lit. As each one sparked into life, yellow light slowly illuminated the immediate things; the pews, the flagstones and then as more candles flared, the light reached the rafters, into all the shadowy corners until no darkness remained and there was only brilliance.

The priest stood there. His hood was cast back. He had shaved his hair close to the skull and that revealed his head shape; square and strong. The jaw line and cheekbones were firm, determined; he looked like a man who knew his own mind and could make others obey him, if that was needed. The eyes were shrewd and he gazed at each of them in turn, assessing them, almost probing into their minds and thoughts.

'Elder Brother,' said Sansa, bowing her head and falling to her knees.

The other two copied her, with more awkwardness and shuffling. The Elder Brother smiled wryly, 'Sansa, you do not need to fear me or bow yourself before me. There is no need for obeisance. Here all men, and women, are equal under the Seven.'

'If you are all equal, then why are you the Elder Brother?' asked Grendle, getting to his feet.

Sansa hit him on the shoulder and he scowled at her.

'No, sister, do not chastise him. It is a good question. Young man, do you think Elder means King? Or ruler? Because it does not. It just signifies time. I have been here the longest. When I die, another will become the elder. With age comes wisdom, so here we venerate age with respect.'

'I see,' said Grendle cheerfully, 'you are the oldest fellow here.'

'Yes Grendle. Now you understand.' The Elder Brother led them into the vestry where there were chairs for them to sit. He passed out pieces of bread and cheese, 'You must be hungry. Take this to ease your stomachs, later I will show you to your cottage where you will be living and the pantry is filled with enough food for a few days. After that you will earn your keep here, grow or catch your food.'

Sansa tasted the bread. It was full of seeds and tasted delicious. Grendle refused his portion, still full of sweet cakes. The Hound also refused to sit or eat; he brooded by the small window even though the view was only of the darkening sky.

'You are angry, Clegane. You want to know why you are here.'

'Yes, enough pleasantries. Explain or I will take my family and go.'

The Elder Brother took a drink from a metal cup. Then he looked up, 'Of course, you deserve to know the truth. I was merely being cautious. I wanted to assess you all before I let you stay here. My fellow priests were watching you approach from the Twins, they reported your actions and any conversation they overheard.'

'They were spying on us?' Sansa was looking at the priest and then at Sandor, 'but we never saw them…I mean we had no idea.'

'They do not always dress as priests. A man in a village you brought bread from perhaps or a passerby on the road who stopped to borrow water from you.'

'Really?' Grendle gasped and shook his head, 'You are so cunning.'

'Cautious, not cunning. The Hound is perceived to be evil; I had to be sure you would not kill my brethren when you arrived.'

'And now you are sure that I won't?' Sandor banged his fist against the whitewashed wall and a crumble of plaster flaked off.

'I have made my decision.' The Elder Brother leaned against his high backed wooden chair. He put his fingers together, crossing them in his lap. Then he said, 'You can stay here, for as long as you need.'

Sansa breathed out a sigh that turned into a sob. Grendle threw his arms around her and held on tightly. Sandor turned from the window, 'But why? Tell me now, what you know about us.'

'Nineteen days ago I was woken up by Brother Gillam. There was a raven.'

Sansa shifted to get more comfortable in her chair. Grendle sat straight on his wooden stool, leaning forward and staring open mouthed, even the Hound moved from the window and sat down next to the Elder Brother, 'Where from?'

'Castle Black.'

'Oh,' said Sansa, 'We…'

'Shhshh, Sansa, let him speak first.' The Hound reached over and held her hand, warning her not to reveal anything.

'The raven came from Castle Black and it held a cryptic message. 'Accept the dog, bitch and pups.'

The Hound growled a little, 'And you knew that meant us? How?'

'First, let me explain something. If a raven had arrived from anywhere else I would not even have considered the message or cared about the meaning. We shun the world here; we do not seek to engage with the wars or ways of men.'

'But Castle Black meant something to you?'

The Elder Brother sighed, 'I am going to tell you something now, something I have not spoken of in many years. It is not secret, just forgotten in the depths of silence.' He held his hands out flat on his lap, palms facing the sky, 'Long ago, I was a Knight. You look shocked boy? Well, it is true. You are not surprised Clegane?'

'You have the look of an old soldier.'

'Perhaps I do. The things you learn as a young man you may try to forget, but the body remembers. My father and all his family had been knights. I loved a woman once but I had nothing to offer her, I was only the third son of my family, there would be no title or lands. She was not interested in a man like me, who only had a shield and a horse.

'So I went to war. I fought for House Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident. I wish I could describe to you how fierce my loyalty was for the noble House. Strange to think of it now, but I fought as if I didn't care if I would die, which I did not. What was life to me, without the one I loved? I only cared for those of the dragonblood. I was knocked unconscious…and then, I do not remember. I woke up naked, here, on the Quiet Isle. The brothers presumed I had been looted for my armour and dumped in the river. For the next ten years I did not speak a single word. It was nearly enough time to understand what silence means to a man.'

'So,' the Hound said, trying to disguise his impatience, 'what does this have to do with Castle Black?'

'I have given my life to this Isle, I do not care about anything mortal men choose to do or which noble House is ruling…and yet, and yet I still have one cord of my being tied to House Targaryen. I say all men are equal and I mean it but if I receive an order from…a certain person whom I hold in high esteem, I will endeavour to do what he asks.'

'Jon Snow?' asked Sansa.

'No. I do not know Jon Snow. It was signed by Brother Aemon.'

'And if the Brother Aemon, whoever he is, changes his mind and tells you to give us to the Baratheon's or the Bolton's…what then? What is your loyalty to this Brother?'

'Aemon Targaryen has been the maester at Castle Black longer than you have been alive Clegane. I travelled there, when I was a young man, heart broken from the woman who would not have me. I thought of taking the Black, you see. It was he that sent me back down South to fight, to join his family House and defend the Targaryen throne. Yet, I believe, nay I know, that he was a seer of some kind because he told me many things in the month I spent with him. I was young, foolish and passionate. He was wise, humble and kind. He told me I would be a priest one day and that I would lose my tongue. I laughed at him, ignored his prophecy.

'By then, a month without women and I had lost my appetitive for the black cloth and the cold, I was ready to go to battle. He wished me well. He said he would send me a raven sometimes and I should reply. But where will you send the raven, I asked him. You will see, he said, once you have lost your tongue. I galloped south and…well you know the rest. Brother Aemon and I have kept in touch. The first raven arrived not long after I washed up here and there have been ravens that arrive with the full moon ever since. We do not say much to one another, often he just bids me to look to the stars for he knows that is how I focus my penitent life.'

'I asked you, what if he ordered you to give us to our enemies?' Glaring, Sandor clenched both his fists causing Sansa to stroke his arm, trying to calm him.

'Believe me, Aemon is the wisest and kindest man I ever met. He is also not influenced by enemies or bribary…if he said to protect you, for whatever reason then that is his advice and I will listen. This Jon Snow? He is your friend?

'He is family,' said the Hound.

'And Lord Commander of the Night's Watch,' said Sansa, with a tinge of pride in her voice.

The Elder Brother smiled, 'Well another piece of the puzzle is explained. No doubt Brother Aemon and Jon Snow know each other well and share thoughts.'

'Perhaps,' Sandor curled his lip and shook off Sansa's hand, 'Accept the dog it said, you knew that meant me?'

'No, I am not a seer,' he laughed and refilled their glasses with mead, 'I sent a raven back and demanded answers, just like you tonight. He was fearful of mentioning your name, I could guess that, but he said enough for me to understand. 'The gravedigger cometh, shelter him.'

Sandor held his head in his massive hands and slumped in his seat, 'The gravedigger?'

'One who has killed a thousand men will dig a thousand graves, only then will he be penitent.' Even though I know little about the mainland, you were the only killer of that calibre who came to mind. You or your brother, but he was lost a long time ago. Bitch, puppies…well I knew you must have a family and you must have repented of your evil ways. Are you penitent Clegane?'

Sandor looked up. His dark grey eyes shined wet in the candle light. Both Grendle and Sansa held on to him, concern painted their faces. He smiled at them both, 'Do not fret, I deserved that judgement. I have been pleading with the Gods not to punish me for my past. Will doing this protect Grendle and Sansa?'

'My brother, it is not about them. It is about finding peace within yourself, here on the Quiet Isle. Do you not long for peace and silence?'

'I do. Yet I care more about Sansa and Grendle. And the baby.'

'Well,' said the Elder Brother, 'Here they will be safe. It is a good place to have the baby, work hard, dig our graves. Bodies wash up daily from the Trident. Perhaps your boy will help you. Then, when the months have slipped by, then you can go where you like. Are you agreed?'

Sansa wiped tears from her eyes and kissed Sandor on his scarred cheek, 'I feel safe here.'

Grendle shrugged, 'I don't care where we are, as long as we are together.'

The Hound looked straight into the shrewd eyes of the Elder Brother, 'Yes, I will be your gravedigger. For a little while.'

'Five hundred days,' said the Elder Brother, 'there may be two bodies a day on the tides.'

'Hopefully more,' said Grendle with a grin, 'if I'm helping him, we can easily bury four of five a day then and get the job done quicker.'

The Elder Brother shook his head and frowned, 'I fear you need to meditate on why you are doing the job, young man, meditate on it in silence until you get your answer.'

Grendle put his head in his hands and tried not to swear. Not out loud anyway.


	55. Chapter 55

The sweat was dripping from his forehead but he did not remove his cowl or shrug aside his face covering. Whilst he was out, working amongst the Brethren, Sandor dressed and acted like one of the penitent Brothers. The grave he was digging opened before him, dark and forbidding. The ground was full of stones and it was back breaking work. Each grave was the same; each shovelful of dirt he cast his mind back and thought about one of the people he had killed, tried to recall details, feelings. The way it sounded s he took their life, the way it smelt. Then he apologised. Well, he tried to. Some of the people he had killed had not deserved it, he knew that. Pascoe was one. His death had been a form of torture, the Hound's lowest point. An expression of his rage for Gregor, the futility he felt. There had been a few like that iron born bastard, where his temper had exploded onto someone who had not really deserved such a fate. Those six sell-swords at Winterfell. They did not really deserve to die. But then again, because of his action Sansa was safe, so should he really atone for deaths like that?

So as each shovel of dirt was lifted and thrown to one side, so too did the Hound's mind lift and examine his actions and contemplate them. Had those deaths that littered his life truly been so terrible? Often it was kill or be killed. Sometimes he had killed to protect those he loved. His mind circled around these ethical questions as he bent, dug, lifted and bent, dug and lifted. Finally he would heft the corpse into the grave and cover it with wet dirt. Did he feel absolution as he covered the body wrapped in white cloth? No, he felt tired. He felt like he had paid for another day here for Sansa and Grendle to be safe. The silence allowed his mind time to think, it gave him the space to decide that actually this world would have took his life if he hadn't been talented with his sword. He would have been the corpse in the dark, cold hole in the unforgiving ground. Two hundred and sixteen graves. That's how many he and Grendle had hacked out of the soil so far. Each one had cut their hands with blisters and made their bones and muscles ache, yet the boy had not complained, not once. Sandor had sent him to help the Brother's in the gardens today so Grendle could rest and then he had dug this grave alone.

The Elder Brother hoped this penitent life of hard work would make a religious man of him. Sandor pushed his scarf down, leant on his shovel and spat into the grave. Then he retied the wet, scratchy cloth around his face again. Fuck the Seven Gods, he thought, only the Old Gods make sense. Living in silence, without the warmth of a woman, no children…all in the hope of ascending to some mystical place one day and all the time bowing down before the one God who has seven different aspects; what nonsense. It sounds like something men would think up; complex and hierarchical, keeping sinners in their place and promising much but delivering little.

The Old Gods were made out of the soil; the forests could be relied upon. Trees grew and died like men grew and died. The cold air, the soft grass, a glass of wine made from the fruit of the ground, the feel of a woman's body wrapped around your own; these were things to pray for, to give thanks to. Sandor threw the last shovel of dirt on the grave and straightened up. His back cricked and ached with the effort. Be thankful for a baby growing in your wife's belly not a God who expected people to follow complex ceremonies and adhere to religious texts. Only the Stranger had ever resonated with him, that aspect of the God had fitted his soul. Death had been his companion, his only motivation. Sandor stamped the soil flat on the grave and briefly wondered who the poor bastard was. He had floated onto the shore, bloated beyond recognition. It will remain a mystery, he thought, in the end all men must die but I am glad this was not my fate. The Hound turned from the grave and began to walk towards the side of the Island where the Brother's lived in their cold, minimal cells. Their religion expected total rejection of any mortal pleasures. It was a strange premise because the closet Sandor had ever felt to the Gods was coming inside Sansa's pretty cunt. He had never felt any religious awakening in any Sept but making love to Sansa felt like heaven or as close to heaven as a man deserved to get. Perhaps he should tell the celibate Brother's this fact. Sandor grinned to himself, perhaps not. He needed to be able to stay here a little longer. Sansa was big with child now, spending her days sat in a chair by the window of the cottage. Sewing clothes that the Hound would hold in his massive fingers and hold up in amazement that the babe could ever be so small; the socks almost made him cry which was ridiculous. He stamped into the building and shook his head to try and rid his mind of sentimental, womanly thoughts. Cry, over a baby! What was he becoming? A soft, old fool that's what. Grendle would die laughing if he knew the Hound had taken one of the tiny woollen socks and was right now carrying it in his pocket.

He marched over to the wash room and shrugged his robes off. He pushed down his rags and shirt and washed his body in the freezing cold water. He was just rinsing the sweat from his hair when Brother Narbert ran in, puffing with exertion. He pointed wildly out of the room and gestured, his arms flailing around and his face red.

'What is it?' Sandor rubbed his hair with a rough piece of sackcloth, 'Just speak for Gods sake man, say what it is. Are we under attack? Has Grendle upset the Brother's again?'

Brother Narbert looked wide-eyed with shock that the novice Brother had spoken. He stepped back and shook his head causing Sandor to chuckle, 'Tell me, or write it down. I cannot understand you.'

The Brother once again stepped away from him. Sandor knew without his robes and penitent stance, he looked like what he was; a battle scarred warrior. He pulled his clothes back on and sighed with impatience, 'Show me then, take me there.'

Brother Narbert once again launched into a highly elaborate mime of movements, his arms pointing back and forth out of the door and pointing to Sandor. Then he made the shape of a huge belly in front of his brown robes and jumped up and down in impassioned haste to make the Hound move quicker.

'Sansa?'

The Brother nodded and a smile flashed across his reddened face. Smile, nod, beckon. The Hound pushed Brother Narbert out of the way and ran towards the cottage. He pushed him gently though and the Brother continued to smile and nod as he watched the big man race towards his wife. He was never going to be a good monk, he thought to himself, but he is an excellent gravedigger. Then he walked in the direction of the Hermit's hole to report to the Elder Brother that the woman was in childbirth. Women so often died during these messy occurrences it would be best for the Elder Brother to join them in case her soul needed praying for. Possibly Brother Digger could not be expected to dig her grave if that happens and I will have to organise one of the other Brothers…and with these musings, Brother Narbert made his way in silence.


	56. Chapter 56

Grendle held onto to Sansa's arm, his small arm fitted beneath hers and held around her ribs so she could lean her whole weight on to him as she panted and rode out the fresh wave of pain that had engulfed her. Her other hand clasped the end of the wooden bed. When he had walked into the cottage and seen Sansa white faced with pain, Grendle had tried to get her to lie on the bed so he could put the blanket over her and get her a cup of tea, but she had barked at him to hold her. She had sounded exactly like the Hound when he was in a temper so Grendle had not attempted to argue with her, but simply dropped the armful of vegetables he had been carrying and let her grasp onto him. Now they alternated walking around the small room in shuffling steps and holding onto the bed whilst Sansa rocked her body through the pain. Despite the pain where she clasped him, Grendle concentrated on holding her tightly so she didn't lose her balance; she didn't seem to be in the room with him at all. Her eyes were closed and her face was focused on the baby inside her. It was on its way out of her body. She needed help to deliver it but he didn't want to leave her alone. He waited until her body released from the bent over position she kept adopting, he knew this meant the pain had washed away for a moment.

'Sansa, Sansa,' he said, 'I have to fetch Sandor, will you be alright for a little while?'

'Yes, get him, get him now.' She shuffled a few steps before bending over again and holding onto the window frame, 'hurry, be quick.' Her voice changed from a low murmur to a shriek and Grendle ran as fast he could out of the cottage, toward the graveyard. Sandor wasn't there but Brother Narbert was sat on a bench near the apple orchard. Grendle ran to him and said wildly, 'Sansa is having her baby, get Sandor right now.'

The Brother looked as if he wanted to give Grendle a beating for speaking out loud but he got up and moved quickly down the slope towards the cluster of whitewashed buildings. Grendle hoped Brother Narbert would manage to relay the message but he couldn't waste any more time, he had to get back to Sansa. The mound of the baby was so huge in her belly, how would it ever fit out of her without breaking her in two? It seemed impossible to him. His heart was beating and he felt the panic settle in his chest like a snake tightening around his lungs; what if she died? Grendle felt cool tears slip from his eyes as he ran, the wind pulling them out and over his cheeks but they released a sob that had been gripped in his mouth. Sansa must not die, he thought, it just would be too cruel.

As he dashed into the cottage, breathless and flustered, he saw Sansa still holding onto the bedpost, as if it was a piece of driftwood and she was shipwrecked in the ocean. She wasn't wearing any skirts, her legs looked very white in that small, gloomy space. Below her feet was a pool of wetness and Grendle could see blood on the grey slabs.

'Are you..,' he almost screamed it as he tried to catch his breath, 'San…sa, are…you...al…right?'

She nodded once, but he could see it took a huge effort, so focused was she on leaning and panting.

'Is it coming out?' Grendle hopped from one foot to the other, rubbing her back and not daring to look. Again she nodded. Grendle felt his heart sink to his toes. He had absolutely no idea what to do.

'Help me on to the bed,' she whispered so that he hardly heard the words, but he heaved and lifted her onto the bed and then she was kneeling, her hands gripping the wooden headboard. Grendle threw one of blankets over her nakedness and then ran around the bed, trying to clear his mind and think how he could help, but he could only hear Sansa screaming. It was a deep, primal sound like a wolf howling. He put his arm around Sansa again and closed his eyes; offered a garbled prayer up to the Seven Gods but he could only see the fat, slimy toad in his mind's eye, the one he had put under Brother Narbert's thin sheet in his cell only this morning…forgive me, he thought, I'm sorry for my sins.

Then the Hound was there, his huge frame taking up all the space in the small room. 'It's okay Grendle,' he said, 'you have done a good job looking after Sansa. Good boy. Get some water boiling so we can clean her after the baby is born. Do you hear me? Get to the kitchen and bring me any clean sheets and some water.'

Grendle gently disentangled himself from the blanket that was wrapped around Sansa. Her body was radiating heat and he could see her fingers were white from gripping the wooden rail. He watched the Hound whispering to her and she wrapped her one arm around his shoulder and leant her whole self into him.

'Everything will be alright, won't it?' Grendle gentle stroked Sansa's arm, it was wet with sweat and covered in goosebumps. She didn't react or answer him, just sagged towards the bed as if she was exhausted.

'Yes, lad, it will,' the Hound gave him a quick glance, a reassuring smile, and then he turned back to Sansa who was panting again. He lifted her up so she could lean on him. Grendle rubbed his hair and pulled at it, his eyes wide and frightened. The Hound said, 'quick Grendle, get the water.'

Grendle moved to the range and stoked up the fire. He focused on his task, concentrated on his orders. One thing after another. Look for the sheets, make the water very hot. He put the kettle on the top and waited for it to boil. All the time he could hear the shrieks and pants from the other room, the Hound's low rumbles as he spoke to her. Then there was a moment of absolute silence, Grendle could hear a cockerel far off crowing and the sound of water lapping the shoreline.

And then the thin, unmistakable wail of a baby.


	57. Chapter 57

The pain was so intense she begged Grendle to cut her throat. Put her out of her misery. She clenched her eyes shut and waited for the pain to stop. It was like a dark pool; she was slipping under the current, deeper into the cold blackness, if she just let go and let the water take her…then it would stop. Then the pain in her lower back would suddenly ebb away, as if she had imagined it all along but even before she had time to fully open her eyes the rings of pain in her pelvis would start again. She was so afraid.

* * *

It had started in the night, back ache, discomfort. She hadn't been able to sleep but she got up and made some raspberry leaf tea and sat in a chair by the embers of the fire. The tea was quite horrible and she added some honey to sweeten it. The Brother's had plenty of bee hives and they could have as much honey as they wanted. She had helped Brother Hendreck with the hives when she had first come to the Isle. He had been pleased with her interest and had taught her how to handle the honey and spin it from the wax combs. It had seemed like such a clever invention, the harnessing of bees. The hives were made of straw and the Brother's fixed a parallel array of wooden bars across the top of the hive to which the bees fixed their combs. Then they simply lifted the wax away and spun it in a wooden drum so the honey came out ready to be used.

As the pains came and went in her lower back, Sansa had spent the night slowly and methodically mixing honey cakes for Grendle and cooking them in the range. The slow, ordered process of measuring the honey and the flour calmed her. By the dawn, the pain had gone and she was left feeling very tired. She had crawled back into the warm bed, next to Sandor who pressed his body around her back and held her. They only had minutes like this before he got up to begin work for the day. She had not told him about the pains in her back, she hadn't wanted to worry him. He was so tired all the time from the relentless graves that needed to be dug. She had heard him calling to Grendle to go to the gardens and then she had fallen into a deep, white sleep.

It seemed like only moments later Sansa had woken to sudden and terrible pain in her abdomen and bottom. Her back tightened and she struggled to stand upright. She began to walk towards the door before she realised she wasn't going to be able to make it far. She concentrated on breathing through each pain as it came. Was that Grendle? He was holding her and cuddling her. Was it minutes or hours since she grabbed hold of the bed? Sansa wanted Septa Mordane. She wanted her to take charge and help her get the baby out. She wanted her mother to place her cool hands on her brow. She wanted Pearl to fix the pain with her herbs and medicine…but they were all dead. Nothing but bones. All at the bottom of the dark pool and now Sansa was going to meet them. Thin, white hands extended out of the darkness and reached for her. Sansa longed to take the hands and disappear into the nothingness. Kill me, she beseeched Grendle again but her voice was a jumble of vowels and pants. She had never felt pain like this; it was all encompassing and rested on her like dark, heavy, rain filled clouds.

After a while, she looked up and realised she was alone. Grendle had gone. The light streaming in the window burnt her eyes. Closing them, Sansa once again bent over, moving her hips to try and escape the pain that pressed on her back. The pressure between her legs was intense, she was sure the baby was about to be born. With instinctive movements, Sansa undid the thin tie that held her skirts up. They fell to the floor and she kicked them beneath the bed. Her hand moved against her womanhood but she could not feel the baby's head. Almost immediately a great gush of water fell from her body, covering her feet and some of the pain receded, allowing her to catch her breath. Then Grendle was back. He was patting her and holding her shoulders. She muttered to him to help her get on the bed and the boy pushed her exhausted body onto the covers. Sansa wanted to lie down and drift into unconsciousness but her body refused any position but kneeling so she held on to the wooden headboard and was gripped with a huge desire to push the baby out. A deep sadness swept over Sansa but it turned into the fierce inclination to push. She screamed.

Large hands held her. He was there. She didn't have to do this alone, with only poor Grendle to help her. Sandor was there, he would make sure the baby would survive. He would protect them. She let go of the headboard and leant back on her feet, her hands on the top of her knees. Push, her body was demanding, push the baby out. He was taking all her weight now; she only had to focus on her body opening. With an effort that took every ounce of strength remaining to her, Sansa drew in a breath and pushed. The baby's head crowned between her thighs, a stinging pain different from the other, it opened her eyes. Light streamed into them. Light that showed her Sandor's face as he knelt by her right side, his arm around her shoulders so she could lean back against him, the other hand between her legs feeling for the baby's head. 'One more push,' he sighed. So she did and the baby slipped out in a gush of fluid.

Angry, red and furious, it opened its mouth and screamed its displeasure at being brought into this world. Sansa sat on the bed smiling, relieved at the noise, still leaning against Sandor's body. She watched as Sandor lifted the baby into the air, his huge hands gently cradling the head and body. She picked up a blanket and he placed the baby on it. Carefully she rubbed the blood and white paste from the skin. The brow was angry, bruised; the little mouth open with indignation. It had dark hair, big tufts of it all over the little scalp, soft curls that she couldn't take her eyes off. Sansa placed the babe against her face and breathed in the smell; it was unlike anything she had every smelt before. Clean and new. The skin was soft like kid leather or the belly of a kitten. She could not stop running her finger down the plump arm. Sandor was holding Sansa tightly, laughing and pressing his face against the tiny one in her arms that looked like his own. He was crying but he didn't seem to notice it. She kissed the tears off his cheek.

'What is it?' asked a small voice from the kitchen doorway.

They looked at him, smiles beaming across their faces, delight lifting their tired limbs to beckon him over, 'come here, come and meet him.'

'Come and meet your brother,' said Sandor.


	58. Chapter 58

She was sat in the window, the golden, evening sun catching her hair, making it glow red. Her face was tilted towards the babe, entirely focused on him. Sandor watched her from the doorway; she hadn't noticed him yet. She was crooning the song; the one Grendle called her lark song. The sound trilled around the whitewashed room. Sandor took a long, slow breath. She looked so beautiful. His arms were full of flowers that he had picked for her from the gardens. The Brother's carefully tended flowers in amongst the rows of vegetables, encouraging their growth, not for the beauty of them, but for the bees. Sandor had walked around the gardens in a daze, plucking any bloom that caught his eye, until his hands were bursting with the delicate stems and fragile petals. Picking flowers for a Lady, like a foolish storybook Knight. But he didn't care, he wanted to be romantic, he wanted to show her how much he loved her, how proud he was of her.

Now he was transfixed by the sight of her feeding the baby. Her face was glowing from the evening light; her white skin blushed with pink, her sweet mouth turned up in a smile. Her dress had fallen down from her shoulders so he could clearly see her cradling the baby, her one hand supporting his delicate neck as she held him to her breast. The other hand was gently stroking the little babe's cheek and head. What had he ever done to be so lucky? How could this have happened to the Hound, the Lannister's brutal dog? He shook his head, as if trying to shake a dream from a slumbering mind, but still she sat there, feeding his newborn son.

'Sansa,' he said, afraid to speak loudly and disturb them.

She looked up and the gentle smile flamed into a huge grin, her blue eyes full of tenderness, glistening with wet emotion, 'I can't stop looking at him.'

'I know. He is beautiful.' Sandor put the flowers onto the window sill so they filled the small space, 'For you, my clever little bird.'

'Thank you my love. I think you are rather clever too; you did make half of him after all. He looks exactly like you.' She ran her fingers over the soft cheek.

Sandor nodded. He had to agree there was a certain similarity to the small face, the shape of the eyes and the curve of the brow. He smiled at her and she touched his hand. Sandor leant in and kissed her. Then he knelt in from of them, his arms around them both. 'The hair is distinctly red, now it has dried out. Definitely red.'

'I think so too,' she said in delight.

'Tully hair.' He touched a strand of hers, 'I do have a fondness for red hair, thanks to you.'

'Look at his little feet.' She unwrapped one foot from the blanket and they both admired it.

'Look at his tiny hand,' Sandor gently touched it with his thumb. Sansa copied him, carefully opening the little star of fingers. She had the look of a woman newly in love. It made him ache, deep within his ribcage, because he knew he had the same look on his own face.

Sansa gently slipped the babe's mouth from her nipple. He was fast asleep. His small face entirely contented. She wrapped him in the blanket and Sandor covered her bare shoulders with her woollen shawl so she would not catch a chill. She sat back, her eyes sleepy, 'He is perfect.'

'Perfect,' he echoed, 'I can't stop looking at him either.'

'Put him on the bed.'

Sandor took the weightless, fragile creature from her. The tiny head looked so small in his huge hand. He lifted the baby to his face and breathed in the new smell; it was sweet milk and purity. He laid him on the soft bed and tucked the blanket over him. Then he knelt next to the bed, his arm around him. 'I will protect you,' he whispered, 'until you grow tall and strong, until you can best me in the training ring, then you can protect me, my little son.' He laughed softly at the thought of his son standing next to him whilst he was an old man with grey hair, 'You will be a great swordsman and a good man. Grendle will teach you how to laugh and outwit me. Your mother will teach you about love, like she taught me.'

Sansa chuckled, 'I can hear you, you know, your whispers are as subtle as your moods.'

He turned and grinned at her, his familiar grimace lifting his half ruined face, his dark eyes merry, 'Perhaps I wanted you to hear me, perhaps I couldn't say such romantic fucking nonsense directly to you, had you thought of that little wife?'

'Perhaps. I think you can do romantic words just fine, when the mood strikes you.'

He got up, after kissing the little baby on the soft velvet of his forehead. Then he took her hand, 'Come and eat with me. Grendle has cooked.'

'Grendle cooked?' Sansa frowned, 'Is it edible?'

'I doubt it but let us humour him.'

They moved from the bedroom into the tiny sitting room. Then they stepped down into the kitchen that was attached to the side of the cottage. Every pan and plate was used in the sink; the floor had white dust all over it. The small table was covered with a sheet. Grendle was ladling some kind of soup into bowls. It was dark pink.

'Beetroot,' he said, rubbing a hand across his forehead and leaving a rose pink smudge, 'the Elder Brother told me how to make it.'

'He told you. Out loud?' Sandor balanced his huge frame onto a tiny wooden stool.

'Yes. He said in 'ceptional circumstances we could break our vow of silence.'

'_Ex_ceptional. Where is he now?' Sansa put her arms around Grendle who smiled at her and leant into her embrace, almost spilling the pan of soup. Sansa quickly took it from him and manoeuvred him onto another stool. He spooned some of the soup into his mouth, wrinkling his brow in surprise.

'It's horrible. It tastes like soil. The Elder Brother is with the other Brother's. They have visitors.'

'I bet it tastes fine boy…visitors you say?' The Hound looked up sharply, the bread he was about to bite into suspended inches from his mouth, 'did you see who it was?'

Sansa was sat in a wooden armchair next to the fireplace, her soup balanced on her lap. She glanced at Sandor, who smoothed the worried look from his face and began eating the pink soup. He didn't even flinch as he swallowed it.

Grendle slurped another spoonful, disgust twisting his lip, 'I didn't see up close. Just men, four or five of them. Brother Narbert was very flustered.'

'Sansa, I think I should go down to the refectory,' Sandor got up, 'get some decent dinner.'

Grendle growled, 'I would be offended…if it didn't taste like earth.' He sighed and pushed his bowl away, 'I tried.'

'Grendle, I love it. Sit with me whilst I eat. There are honey cakes in the cupboard.'

The boy pushed his stool next to Sansa. Then he got the sweet cakes and sat down, one hand holding on to Sansa's shoulder. The Hound nodded to them, 'Stay here. Don't go out until I come back.' Then he was gone and they were left with the fire to warm them.

'I'm going to eat all these cakes Sansa.'

'I made them for you. I love you Grendle. You were so brave.'

The boy shrugged and nodded, then went a dark shade of pink, 'I… I, well, I was afraid you would die Sansa. I am so glad you didn't die…because the Hound would have skinned me alive.'

Sansa laughed, 'You are glad I didn't die to avoid the Hound's anger, not because you love me too?' She patted him on the head and then got up, putting her empty bowl on the table.

The boy looked at her. His pale green eyes held her blue pair, 'I do love you. I love the baby too. He is my brother.'

'I know I am too young to be your mother Grendle, I am only six years older than you but I feel like a mother. I am concerned about your safety and I long to wash your face.' She rubbed a damp cloth over his forehead, chuckling at his wildly flailing hands.

He batted her away. 'We are a family that is all that matters.' Grendle smiled and passed her a honey cake, 'these are damn, good cakes Sansa.'

'Don't curse. Don't stuff the whole cake in at once. What shall we call him, do you think?' Sansa filled a tea pot with lavender and rose petals.

'I don't know, shouldn't Sandor choose?'

'Yes, probably,' she laughed again, 'but our opinion also counts.'

'Not Grastus. Or Gregor. No G names'

Sansa threw the wet cloth at him. Then the baby made the smallest cry and the two of them both ran to look at him.

'Is he hungry?'

'Yes, I think so.' Sansa lifted the baby and settled into the chair by the window. 'Sit by my feet if you like. Get the blanket.'

Grendle wrapped himself up and leant against her legs as she fed the little one. He soon closed his eyes, sleep drifted like a soft cloud and overwhelmed him. Sansa patted Grendle's head and crooned her lark song. The baby opened his dark eyes and looked at her. He had an oddly determined look about him, like he wouldn't take no for an answer, 'Fierce little babe,' she whispered, 'like your father. This is a world where you need to be fierce, but you must also be kind.' The baby gulped down his milk. The moon rose outside the window, cool and clean white light bathed the room.

* * *

Sandor walked back into the cottage, he was out of breath, from rushing back up the slope. He cast aside his brown robe. They were asleep, all three. He stood over them, not wanting to wake them. Not yet. They had a little time before they should leave. The men who had come to the Quiet Isle had talked of many things. The Brother's had listened in silence. He had sat, unobserved by the strangers but the Elder Brother had cast him a look that side your time here is done. _You are no longer safe here. Flee Brother._ That is what he had written on a scrap of vellum and placed in the Hound's hand. The strangers brought tidings of war; they were here to deliver a decree. The Quiet Isle had been appropriated by some Lord who wanted the fertile land for his own food supplies. Sandor felt pity for the Brethren but something in the set of their shoulders told him they would not give the Island up quietly. The time for silence was finished.

Sandor looked at these three people, all sleeping quietly, so beloved to him. They would be very surprised when he told them they had to go, cross the narrow sea and escape the war that had found them again. But they would be brave; he had no doubt of that. Fucking fearless, the pair them. It would be difficult with a new babe, but they would find a way. They always did. He put a hand on Sansa's head and the other on Grendle's. They stirred slightly, opened their eyes. 'You are back,' whispered Sansa.

'Of course,' he said.

Grendle put his arms around Sandor's leg, 'Hello old dog.'

'Hello Grendle.' He stroked the boy's head and tucked the blanket around his shoulders.

They drifted into peaceful sleep again, soothed by his presence. They felt safe, because of him. _What did I ever do, to warrant a reward like this? Must have pleased one of the Old Gods when I protected Sansa from that fuckwit Joffrey or maybe my sister has been watching over me._ The Hound touched the tiny shape in Sansa's arms. The baby opened his small eyes and opened his mouth in a yawn. 'I can't call you Agathe,' he whispered in his gruff, low voice, 'I shall name you Robb or Brandon. That will please your mother. Perhaps we shall make you a sister and name her Agathe. When we reach the Free Cities.'

The END


	59. Chapter 59

Thank YOU

(Includes massive story spoilers, so don't read this if you happen upon this page first!)

Thank you to all my dear, faithful readers...I can't tell you how much it has meant to me everytime you reviewed this story and encouraged me! It really has kept me going, knowing that you were enjoying it. I set myself a challenge: write a novel in 3 months and I have (just) done it!

I have enjoyed writing it! I especially enjoyed puzzling out some of the storylines. I had a clear idea...give the Hound some pleasure and happiness, he bloody well deserved it, and I had a vivid image of Joffrey pushing them together and then the first sex scene by the river.

However, the story was not completely plotted when I began so some things surprised me too. Harrenhal for example. When I had the pair ambushed I didn't know who had done it. It forced me to get them out of that situation. Enter Pearl and a handy little stable boy...Grendle was my favourite aspect of the whole story in the end. When I brought him back into the story, he was there to serve a purpose...get Sansa out of Harrenhal. Once he entwined himself into the story and charmed the Hound I suddenly saw another purpose for him. I didn't believe the Hound could actually kill Gregor, without a massive incentive, like seeing Gregor kill someone he loved. I actually considered Gregor killing Sansa (for a moment!) and then I thought that Sandor could grow to love Grendle and then at the final encounter with Gregor, Grendle would die to enable Sandor to kill Gregor.

But everyone loved Grendle!

And I loved Grendle!

I honestly deliberated over it for a whole week before I could write the Gregor/Sandor fight. I wanted to stick to my belief that Sandor could not manage to kill his brother without this sacrifice but I was torn because I didn't want to actually kill Grendle! I hope my compromise worked, I was happy with it!


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